


Make Love Not War

by ultharkitty



Series: Make Love Not War [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:11:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 29
Words: 25,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Onslaught brings about a new world order for Cybertron, and the Protectobots find themselves involved in ways they could never have imagined.<br/> </p><p>This is a mostly fluffy, cracky, light-hearted fic with happily polyamorous robots, but it does also include major character death in the beginning, the ongoing impacts of those deaths on other characters, coercion and melodrama. Also includes spark bonding, robots with complicated love lives, drunk robots, robots throwing up because they were too drunk, and shenanigans. Sticky and non-sticky interfacing. Multiple pairings - I'll tag for them as they turn up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NK (NKfloofiepoof)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NKfloofiepoof/gifts).



> This is a new AU based on a ridiculous kinkmeme prompt that I never posted. I wrote the first nine chapters for a challenge, which is why everything's quite short. For the moment, I'm sticking to the flashfic chapters format in the hope it stays something that's fun to work on and not too heavy. 
> 
> I'm open to requests for this verse.

This wasn't how it was meant to go.

Starscream spat, trying to rid his mouth of a vile mix of oil and sand. He pushed up from the beach, his wings torn, one optic cracked. The Combaticons were long gone, a vapour trail the only mark of the shuttle's passing. 

They were meant to revere him: their saviour, the creator of their strong new bodies, the instrument of their resurrection. 

Instead they turned on him. 

Starscream snarled. Had he miscalculated? Had he somehow reduced their cognitive capacity when he released them from their prison? They should have been terrified, reliant, tied to him. They were stranded on an alien world an eternity from home. He alone held the key to their continued survival.

But their lack of energy absorbers didn't give him the hold he'd imagined. 

Instead of following him to victory they had laughed in his face. Instead of bowing before his benevolence, they'd beat him when he tried to stop them from leaving. 

Starscream leapt, his thrusters firing, flinging him into the ungainly necessity of root mode flight. There had to be something he could salvage from this, but he was damned if he knew what it was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two days later  
Cybertron**

 

Megatron had begun the battle, but Onslaught ended it. 

Flames licked the fuel from Onslaught's armour. Smoke rose to made ghosts of the Combaticons taking position behind him. His hands were full, his fingers dripping. He brought his arms up, heard the hush before the first set of knees came crashing to the ground.

He flicked his wrist, sent Starscream's head in a bouncing roll across the floor. Skywarp sidestepped, sneering; Thundercracker looked down. Their resistance lasted as long as it took Onslaught's cannons to realign. 

Only it hadn't been his cannons that had claimed this victory, it had been his fists, his guile, his strategy. His rage. 

The seekers bowed, Astrotrain followed. 

Onslaught held Megatron's head high. The processors still steamed, the frayed and swaying cables sparked at the stump of the neck. The optics were cracked and lightless.

Cannons powered up behind him. The team bond rang with a moment's pure accord. Onslaught tossed the head into the star-strewn Iacon sky, and Blast Off turned it to vapour. 

The ground trembled; the crowd went dark as optics dimmed and heads bowed. 

This was the moment of his accession. Not the instant of Megatron's death, not the slaying of Starscream or the capture of Shockwave. No, _this_ was the moment the balance swayed, the point at which authority transferred. 

It felt good. 

Behind him, Brawl scooped up his predecessor's carcass. Megatron would lie in state alongside Starscream. Onslaught would leave it an orn before the smelting pool did its work. The truth of their obliteration would need to be seen, to be experienced. 

It was never enough to seize power, Megatron had taught him that. Starscream too. Now he had to keep it.

"This is the dawn of a new age," he told them. "Prepare yourselves."

As the last of the flames burnt themselves out, Onslaught strode forward, and the ranks of the Decepticon army parted to let him pass.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for NK <3

"I would apologise," Onslaught said. "But I fear it would lack meaning."

Knelt on the floor of the command deck, Soundwave bowed his head and registered acknowledgement through the pulsing of his energy field. Onslaught's hand rested on his shoulder, not exactly threatening, but possessive, confident. 

"I will need you," Onslaught continued. "Your expertise, your loyalty, your commitment." On screen, a group of drones cleaned the last smears of pink from the ruined plaza on the outskirts of Iacon. Megatron's empty frame had been cleared away, his spark chamber nothing more than an ornament on a chain over Onslaught's chest. 

"My cassettes," Soundwave said, and was powerless to prevent a ripple of hope from entering his field. 

"They'll be returned to you," Onslaught replied, knowing perhaps that he did not have to add that they were safe, unharmed, together. "Your duties, privileges and rank likewise."

Soundwave looked up. "Your conditions?" he asked.

Onslaught's optics dimmed, his hand straying to caress the cables at Soundwave's throat. "Everything you were to Megatron," he said, "you will be to me."

Silence spooled as Soundwave absorbed the demand and assessed the consequences. They would not be few. But his cassettes would be safe, his position their security.

Eventually, he raised himself on one knee and opened his deck. As the light of his spark filled the room, Onslaught descended to meet him.


	4. Chapter 4

Jazz called the meeting at midnight. He transformed a finger and plugged himself into Teletraan-1. 

"The footage is from Rewind," he said, as the feed established and an image formed on the screen. "He beamed it to me live. This was Senate Square, Iacon, fifteen minutes ago and counting."

A nod from Optimus, a general murmur from the others. Prowl, Ratchet, Wheeljack, Smokescreen, Perceptor, Blaster: the Prime's unofficial advisory council. It didn't take them long to look worried. 

"Who is that?" Perceptor asked, as a hulking monstrosity rose on the other side of the square. The feed zoomed in on a combiner none of them had seen before. 

"We don't know," Jazz replied. "The audio isn't great. You hear that crackling? Soundwave's running some kind of interference."

Blaster nodded. "Not aimed at Rewind though," he said. "He's going through resonant frequencies, trying to get the gestalt to decombine."

It wasn't working. The monster roared, and took a swipe at the air. Fire bloomed, the thing's fist trailing smoke. 

"It has Starscream," Optimus said. 

Jazz nodded. "Megatron's in there too. Look left and down, that gleam just there in the dust, that's him. At this point, he's still moving."

A jet of purple light speared up. 

Optimus leaned forward. "Fusion cannon."

A second shot hit the combiner full in the back. It roared anew, and began to fall, but instead of crashing it fragmented. 

"They didn't go down," Prowl said. "Wait, is that..."

"Devastator," Jazz said, as the smoke cleared enough at the far right of the square to reveal a sad tangle of purple and green. "It got to him before Rewind was in place."

The central unit transformed to robot mode and charged. A massive grounder with twin back-mounted cannons, he ran at Megatron while his team secured a perimeter around him. 

Five minutes later, it was all over. 

Optimus stared, Prowl gaped. Smokescreen looked ill. 

Ratchet brought up the display on a smaller screen so he could pause it in various places. "He's not coming back from that."

"Frag," Smokescreen whispered.

"I know," Blaster said. "Hard to believe, ain't it?"

Prowl pulled out a datapad and began typing. "Is there any chance Megatron could have survived?"

Ratchet gave him a look. "The gestalt control unit destroyed his spark and the shuttle vapourised his head."

Slowly, Smokescreen got out of his seat and fetched himself a glass of coolant from the dispenser by the door. His hands were shaking. 

"Smokey?" Jazz said. 

"I know him," Smokescreen said. "I... Jazz, pause the feed."

Jazz complied, bringing the footage to a halt on the clearest view of the team. They walked in formation behind their leader, their armour smoking. 

"That's Swindle," Smokescreen said. "The one at the back, purple optics, no mask. I knew him before the war."

"And the others?" Prowl asked, and Jazz caught a glimpse of his data-pad; the screen was a blur as he used the pad to augment his own search, trying to work out who these new threats were. 

Smokescreen shook his head. "I can't... Yeah, I know them. I can give you IDs on all of them." He took a deep vent, and put the glass down before it shattered. "I need to say this before we go any further, and Optimus, I can understand if you need to put me on leave while this runs its course." Smokescreen leaned on the chairback, and this time Jazz was sure he was going to purge. "When I said I knew Swindle before the war, I mean I _really_ knew him. We were bonded."


	5. Chapter 5

"You 'were' bonded?" Ratchet fastened another clip to Smokescreen's spark chamber, and flipped a switch on an adjacent machine. "Interesting choice of words."

Smokescreen shuffled back on the med-berth, frowning. "You know what I mean," he said. "Is this likely to take long?"

"Maybe," Ratchet said. "In your file, it says your bondmate died."

Smokescreen swung his legs, fingers tapping on his thighs. "He did."

"Evidence would suggest not."

"I _thought_ he was dead. Does it make any difference?"

Ratchet adjusted the clips; Smokescreen shuddered. "Yes," he said. 

"Look, Ratchet, I don't want to question your authority, and Primus knows I'm not saying anything about your skill, but I'm OK. There's nothing coming through the bond, it's like it isn't even there any more. Sure, I had surges a few days ago, but that's what happens when I let Eject mix my drinks. Isn't all this a bit like... overkill?"

"No."

Smokescreen huffed. 

"Tell me about it," Ratchet said. "Your bond."

Sighing, Smokescreen locked his arms to stop himself fiddling with the clips. "It was never perfect," he said. "Like I said to Jazz, sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't. When they took him away, we were already over, we'd been over a _long_ time. I knew something bad had happened to him, but I didn't know what."

Ratchet leant down to peer into his spark. "And after that?"

"Nothing." Smokescreen shrugged. "I honesty thought he was dead."

"What about side effects? Physical ones, I mean."

Smokescreen shuffled back again, tensing his cables to relieve the tingle in his chest. "I didn't get any," he said. "I... Frag, it was vorns after we split, I hadn't seen him since the war broke out. I didn't want to see him."

"Take a deep vent," Ratchet said. "And release. Did you experience any symptoms when you separated?"

"You mean the first time?" Smokescreen's laugh was bitter. "Sure. And the second time, and the third time. You get the picture."

"It was like that huh?" Ratchet transformed his index finger into a probe, and Smokescreen looked away. "I need to take a deeper reading," he said. "This might feel a little odd, but it'll be over in a moment _aaaaand_ there, done."

"Ugh." Smokescreen shuddered. "Is that it?"

"Aside from the consistency report, yes," Ratchet said. "Which means you're tied to that spot for the next five minutes. How many times did you separate from Swindle?"

"Oh about once an orn," Smokescreen said. "We never should have bonded. It was such a mess."

"And you experienced what symptoms exactly at each separation?"

"Frag, I don't remember," Smokescreen said. "Nausea? Disassociation maybe, enhanced urge to interface, stupid crying fits, anger, surges, spark arrhythmia, a bit of rust, apathy, mood swings, hallucinations, you name it. OK, so I remember."

"And that happened every time?"

"Not to the same intensity," Smokescreen responded, "but yeah. It was so much worse the final time, but I had to get my act together. I couldn't keep going back to him."

Ratchet pulled up a chair, sitting where he could keep an optic on Smokescreen's face as well as his spark. "There's no easy way to phrase this," he said. "Was Swindle abusive in any way?"

"If you count emotional blackmail," Smokescreen said. "But I was no better. We were the poster bots for dysfunction."

"You argued?"

"Like we were being paid for it." 

"Did it ever come to blows?"

Smokescreen tried not to watch for Ratchet's irregular glances towards his spark. "Not between the two of us," he said. 

"There was someone else?" Ratchet asked, and Smokescreen knew the query made his spark shrink. 

"Not just one," he replied. "But yeah, there was one in particular... I don't think either of us knew the meaning of the word 'faithful'. But we went and got an exclusive bond anyway. We were so stupid."

"You were young," Ratchet said. 

"We were old enough to know better." Smokescreen vented slow, staring at nothing. "When Swin turned career criminal, I thought I could cope. I thought it'd be casinos and oil baths and pleasure drones til Primus awakens."

"But it wasn't," Ratchet said. 

"Not with Swindle." Smokescreen sighed, and why should he care what Ratchet saw in his spark? No matter what the present vomited up, the past hadn't all been bad. 

Ratchet flipped a switch on the spark monitor, and began disengaging the clips. "Is this where your 'one in particular' comes in?" 

Smokescreen opened his mouth to answer, but it was an uncomfortable truth; he pressed his lips together in a wry smile and shook his head. "It was a long time ago."

"That it was." Ratchet removed the final clip and re-secured Smokescreen's armour. "I'm putting you on medical leave for at least the next week, with a review at the end of that time. Mind that I'm terming it _medical_. I don't believe for a moment that your past makes you a threat, but I am worried about your energy readings, and the potential for the bond to re-ignite."

Flexing his doors, Smokescreen slid off the berth. "I don't think that's going to happen," he said. "But I understand." Halfway to the exit, he glanced back. "Hey doc, I can still drink, right?"

"In moderation," Ratchet said. "And don't let Eject mix you anything."


	6. Chapter 6

Trailbreaker was lining up shot glasses in the tactical team's office when Smokescreen got out of medbay. 

"You heard, huh?" Smokescreen said. He sat heavily in his favourite battered chair, the springs creaking and his wings sinking into the soft Earth-made foam. 

"Yup." Trailbreaker got up and kicked the door shut. Then he opened it, flipped the sign on the outside to 'Meeting in Progress', and shut it again.

"Who else knows?"

"About you and Swindle?" Trailbreaker said. "Just about everybody." 

Smokescreen groaned. "Tell me it hasn't all gone to hell," he said. "Tell me it's not going to be as bad as I think it is."

Trailbreaker pulled a cube of high grade from under his desk. "So your ex-convict bondmate from before the war shows up with that other guy you both used to date and they help that guy they used to work for kill Megatron and take over the Decepticons. Nope, they're not gonna cause any trouble, and it's all gonna be fine."

"Thanks." Smokescreen watched as Tailbreaker peeled the lid off the cube. "Smells like heaven."

"Triple distilled." Trailbreaker began to pour. "Nice and thick, just like they used to make. You did tell them about the copter, right?"

Smokescreen shrugged. 

"You didn't. Smokey..."

"Don't Smokey me, I was bonded to Swindle, that's the relevant part." He reached for the first glass.

Trailbreaker pushed it out of the way. "Uh-huh. So, you're telling me the guy you went to prison for isn't relevant."

"It wasn't even an orn!" 

"Because he bailed you out."

"Gimme the drink, Trailbreaker."

"Remember how many times you told me you were over them? Then that rotary turns up and suddenly you're gone to Iahex or Monacus or that casino on Moon Two, and I don't hear from you until you need someone to sub you the price of a ticket back home."

Smokescreen slumped. "You think it's going to happen again," he said. 

Trailbreaker wrapped his hand around the glass. "Well, is it?" 

"Of course it isn't! They're the enemy, I'm an Autobot."

After a moment's silence, Trailbreaker pushed the shot Smokescreen's way. "You know why I worry," he said. "We've been here before."

Smokescreen downed the shot and slammed the glass back on the desk. "Not here we haven't," he said. "So I didn't tell them about Vortex. It doesn't mean I'm hiding it from them. It's just not something they need to know."

"Sure it's not." Trailbreaker refilled Smokescreen's glass. "You know how it looks to me?"

"You're going to tell me."

"I sure as hell am. It looks like you're not over him."

"It was aeons ago!"

Trailbreaker shrugged. "You had a spark bond."

"Not with _him_." Smokescreen took the second shot and gestured for more. "It's just a shock, that's all. I mean frag, I thought they were dead. Properly dead, forever dead. And now here they are, and Megatron's dust and Starscream too, and I'm having a hard time getting it all in my head."

"You and me both," Trailbreaker said. He cracked a smile, and he looked as bitter and nostaglic and afraid as Smokescreen felt. "All right," he said. "So Ratchet put you on medical leave. I think for the sake of our long term well-being, we don't leave this room until someone has to break in and carry us out. You in?"

Smokescreen seized his third shot, welcoming the tingle it spread. "I'm in."


	7. Chapter 7

Another room, another meeting. Jazz sat on a table at the front, the transcript of his interview with Smokescreen scrolling along the bottom of his visor. 

For a crowd that contained the gestalts, the frontliners, the minibots and Bluestreak, it was surprisingly quiet. All eyes were on him, and all visible faces showed that same mixture of shock, awe and deep-seated dread he'd experienced on his first viewing of Rewind's footage. 

"We have very little on their capabilities," Jazz said. "We can extrapolate from their root modes, but we haven't seen them in alt. As you've seen, we know they combine, and we know a direct blast from a fusion cannon is enough to take them apart but not take them out. With the exception of Swindle, we don't know their weaknesses."

Fireflight raised his hand. "Which one's Swindle again?"

"Yellowy green one at the back," Air Raid hissed. "Focus."

"That's the one," Jazz replied, and spared a thought for Wheeljack attempting to brief the Dinobots. As far as wandering attention went, Jazz had it easy.

"Hey Jazz," Windcharger spoke up. "I'm sorry this might sound callous, but is there a way to use Smokescreen's spark bond to our advantage?"

This earnt him a slightly disturbed look from Bluestreak and four fifths of the Protectobots, and an approving nod from Blades, Huffer and a few other people well known for either a vicious streak or losing at cards. 

"Smokescreen is on medical leave," Jazz said. "As far as Ratchet can determine, the spark bond is inactive. It's of no strategic use."

"So hit us with it," Huffer demanded. "How screwed are we?"

Sunstreaker folded his arms and sighed. "They're only a gestalt."

"They _killed_ Megatron," Huffer snapped. "Were you even watching? Or is your wax so bright you can't see past your own nose?"

"Stop." Jazz said. "Now. Huffer, no personal remarks. Sunstreaker, stay in that chair like you're welded to it. You got that?"

Sunstreaker rolled his optics and folded his arms. Huffer huffed. "You didn't answer my question," he grumbled.

"I'm getting to it," Jazz said brightly. "We're still getting together the intel we need to work out our next step."

Bluestreak straightened in his seat. "Is that why Mirage isn't here? I saw Mirage this morning in the rec room, but he isn't here, unless he's in the corner practicing being invisible, but Prowl said he couldn't do that at meetings any more since he spoke that time and Red Alert shot through the ceiling and I don't mean that literally but he was really spooked, and it would make sense to send in Mirage because Rewind's small but he can't get so close as Mirage can without being seen."

When Bluestreak had run out of steam, Jazz gave him a brief polite nod, and continued. "We're going to learn as much as we can about them, we're going to check our defences, our weapons, everything. We're doubling patrols until further notice, and no-one's to go out in a group of less than four, is that understood?"

"So we _are_ screwed?" Huffer said, as the rest of the room mumbled an affirmative and Jazz's comm went off.

"'Scuse me," he said, and slipped out of the room. "Prowl, what's up?"

"Turn on the main screen in the meeting room," Prowl said. "Optimus wants everyone to see this."

"Sure thing." Jazz didn't waste time asking why or what it was; he'd find out with the rest of them. "All right," he said loudly as he re-entered the room. The buzz of conversation died, and all optics turned on him. He switched the room's giant screen to 'on' and stood to one side. "Prime's got something he wants you to see."

Prowl's face was the first thing on the display. "Five minutes ago," he began, "we received this communication. Optimus believes that you should all hear what they have to say."

The screen flickered, and Prowl was replaced by an image of Cybertron behind a purple and silver Decepticon insignia. This faded smoothly into Swindle's smiling face. 

"Optimus Prime," he said, "Autobots, may I present to you Onslaught, Supreme Leader of the Decepticons, Lord Protector of Cybertron, and Commander of the Combaticons." 

The camera panned to Megatron's killer, still stained with soot and oil, still streaked with his victims' energon. He sat on Megatron's throne, a chain around his neck from which hung a sick reminder of his victory. To one side of him stood the grey rotary, to the other the shuttle.

"Megatron and Starscream are dead." He spoke calmly, his orange visor bright and his expression obscured by a chipped battle mask. "Shockwave is in custody. No doubt you know this; you have eyes on Cybertron, Soundwave assures me. I have a message for you, the same message I will send to all Autobot colonies." He paused for emphasis, and it was eerie how silent the meeting room had become. 

"We have no interest in prolonging a war that has weakened and is in danger of obliterating the Cybertronian people. The Decepticons, remnant of the once-proud Cybertronian Imperial Military Forces, have been perverted to the cause of a personal grudge for far too long. I will not stand for this. All enmity will be cast aside, all crimes forgiven, all convicted given amnesty in the interests of a united Cybertron. I offer this for the continuation of our species."

The camera zoomed, focusing on Onslaught's face. "I once heard a speech," he said. "It was given by a young Iaconian dock worker before the Matrix found him. I remember his final words well: 'Til all are one.' Prime, I hear you have not abandoned your ideals. I offer you this opportunity: peace, an end to your war. Together, we will restore Cybertron." Another pause, and the camera panned out again to show Onslaught framed by the whole of his team, a parade of seekers behind him standing to crisp attention, Soundwave lurking slightly to the side. It was a show of force, a threat implied but not stated. A promise that Onslaught had the Decepticons in check. 

The image faded out, and Prowl re-appeared. "They attached a provisional treaty," he said. "Jazz, Hot Spot, Silverbolt; Optimus needs you in control in fifteen minutes. Bumblebee, Gears, Huffer, Windcharger, you're on perimeter checks." 

"You heard the mech," Jazz said, as the screen went blank. "The rest of you, we're still on alert. Fuel up, and get to your posts."


	8. Chapter 8

"It's logical," Prowl said. "Although the tradition may appear strange."

"A whole gestalt?" Silverbolt sat stiffly, his back so straight Jazz swore he could hear the struts creak. "But why do we have to bond with them? Why isn't the treaty by itself insurance enough?"

Jazz looked to Hot Spot, trying to work out what he thought. But the Protectobot leader was as quiet as he'd been for the reading of the treaty and the explanation of the conditions. 

"Bonding unites the two factions," Prowl said. "It was used between city states in the Golden Age to cement alliances and prevent wars."

"But a _gestalt?_ " Silverbolt frowned. "You only have two."

And they'd get the Stunticons in return; what a deal. But Jazz held his tongue.

"There will be room for negotiation," Optimus said. "This is only one option."

Prowl shook his head. "With respect, I disagree. Onslaught was incarcerated before the true breakdown of social order. He is a mech out of time, a remnant of the Cybertron that once was. He's using rules of engagement rooted in the Primal Codex; he will regard this as a sacred trust with little room to manoeuvre."

A soft cough brought everyone's attention to Hot Spot. "Why was he incarcerated?" he asked. 

"As far as we have been able to ascertain," Optimus said, "he led an insurrection against Megatron."

"Starscream tried to take over all the time," Silverbolt said. "Megatron never took his spark out and put him in a box."

"Starscream was Winglord of Vos," Prowl said. "He had real estate, power - political and spiritual - authority derived from Primus if you follow the old ways. To kill him would have alienated a large proportion of Megatron's supporters."

Jazz nodded. "We have no record of Onslaught: his name doesn't turn up in the archives, his spark signature isn't stored anywhere. We know from Smokescreen that he was a veteran of the imperial wars turned gangland thug. That's all. Unlike Starscream, he had no leverage."

"Have we learnt anything more about the others?" Hot Spot asked, and the way he asked the question, his processors so evidently churning away, made Jazz's spark shrink in his chest.

"Eject's working on it," Blaster said from the corner. "So far he's found very little. Brawl has a patchy military record; he specialised in explosives and minor acts of insubordination. Vortex was military too, some brand of black ops, but his files are locked down and the encryption's hard to break. Swindle has a criminal record that'd stretch to the Moon and back, but it's nothing Smokescreen didn't tell us about. And we have nothing at all on Blast Off."

Silverbolt looked from Optimus to Prowl to Jazz. "And you expect us to go over there and what? Bond with them? Be diplomatic hostages like something out of the dark ages? Make them behave?"

"We expect nothing," Optimus said. "This is not a decision to be taken lightly."

"We'll do it," Hot Spot said. 

Jazz cringed, Prowl brightened. Silverbolt turned on his colleague. "No you won't! You can't do that yourself, let alone to your team."

"We are of one mind," Hot Spot said. "If we truly have a chance for peace, we can't dismiss it just because it's difficult."

Silverbolt shook his head. "We know nothing about them. This is crazy."

It was, but Jazz could see the logic in it too. "I think we should give them time," he said to Optimus. "Hot Spot needs to speak with his team. I mean face to face, not gestalt style. It's a lot to think about."

"Agreed," Optimus said. 

Jazz smiled, and it was as much to reassure himself as it was for anyone else's benefit. When the gestalt leaders had gone, he sank into a chair.

"Is this really the right thing to do?" he said.

"Yes," Prowl replied, while Blaster merely shrugged.

Optimus sighed. "How long have we dreamed of a united Cybertron?" he said. "How long have we waited for the chance to bring an end to the war, to heal the damage we have done? Jazz, I think you should encourage Perceptor to speak with Hot Spot. Prowl, establish a channel to Cybertron, I wish to speak with Onslaught."


	9. Chapter 9

The Protectobots sat to attention, four open expectant expressions and one politely surly expression turned Perceptor's way. It hadn't been easy fitting them all in the lab, what with his current project warring for space with Wheeljack's Dinobot upgrades, but it was the only room with adequate soundproofing, and eavesdroppers were the last thing he wanted. 

"So," he said, "Jazz, ah, requested that I speak with you on a confidential and very sensitive subject, um..."

Hot Spot nodded. "We appreciate your time," he said. "We understand that anything shared in this meeting goes no further."

"Thankyou." Perceptor vented deep. "In the fifteenth vorn of Nova Prime, I was, ah, involved in an exchange of scientists, inventors and other professionals between Kalis and Altihex." He tucked his hands behind his back, and locked his fingers together.

"They swapped you?" Blades said. "Why?"

"To strengthen the position of Kalis," Perceptor said. "And to ensure favourable trading terms for Altihex. Practical reasons."

"But why you?" 

"My work was superior," Perceptor said. "You must understand this was a prestigious position. At the time, war between city states was not uncommon, and wars between private institutions were frequent. A global senate had not yet been formed, and territorial conflict was the norm."

"Wow," Groove commented. "That had to be _aeons_ ago. What was it like back then? Did you see early Iacon? Did you ever visit Hydrax before it fell to the Rust Sea?"

"Let Perceptor tell this his own way," Hot Spot said. "I'm sure he'll be happy to answer questions later."

In all honesty, Perceptor would rather have answered questions now. But he untangled his fingers, and forced himself to sit down. "I will try to make this brief," he said. "I travelled to Kalis as expected, and underwent the ceremony of integration. During the ceremony, I established a spark bond with Narus, their lead scientist."

"Excuse me," First Aid said. "May I ask what kind of spark bond?"

"A standard binary team bond," Perceptor replied. "We were chosen for our skills and our similar outlooks. She was... thoughtful, witty." He couldn't stop himself from smiling. "We were fortunate, our personalities were compatible, and we found working together to be an eminently acceptable arrangement."

Blades coughed. "Were you expected to, y'know, interface?"

"Of course," Perceptor said. "Any bond requires physical and emotional intimacy to enable participants to function at their optimum. I'm sure you understand that from your own experiences."

The smirk vanished from Blades' face. "You mean you _have_ to interface with someone if you're bonded to them?" He turned to Hot Spot. "You never said anything about that. Frag, we don't even know them."

"The, um, nature of the interfacing," Hot Spot said, "the same effect can be achieved via an external uplink, yes? I mean, the same as..." 

First Aid patted him on the knee. "Is spark-on-spark or penetrative interfacing essential?" he asked. Hot Spot looked grateful.

Perceptor coughed. "Um no," he said. "Erotic interfacing of any kind is not, ah, essential. Some level of physical intimacy will be required, but the bond augmentation procedures can be undertaken formally."

"Formally?" Blades said. "So like with cables, right?"

"Exactly."

"Is that what you did?" Streetwise asked. 

Perceptor sighed. "No," he said. "Although it is not a physical or metaphysical necessity, erotic intimacy was a cultural expectation in those days."

Blades made a face. "What, you mean you had to... With someone you didn't know?"

"It was expected," Perceptor said, continuing only because the team looked so scandalised. "We were not adverse to the idea," he said. "We were allowed a cycle to get to know one another first, and, um, it all progressed to the satisfaction of our superiors." 

Blades opened his mouth, but one glance from First Aid was enough to make him close it again. Perceptor could only imagine what he was about to ask.

"What about you?" Hot Spot said. "I mean, was it all right? Did you get used to it?"

A pang of nostalgia speared Perceptor's spark. He leant on a portion of Grimlock's new tail, and drummed his fingers on the steel. "We did," he said. "We became fond of each other. Very fond. We worked well together, and... It would not be far fetched to say that we fell in love."

Groove grinned; Blades pulled a face. Streetwise spoke up. "But what if you hadn't liked each other?" he said. "What then?"

"It wasn't unheard of," Perceptor said. "I never knew anyone personally who experienced that, but there were news reports. War was a frequent consequence of a severed or unsuccessful spark bond. I believe the conflict between Stanix and Vos was caused when Starscream responded poorly to a bond. Of course there were other influential factors. Most people of any caste who participated in an arranged bond did their best to make it work."

"And there's the moral of the tale," Blades commented. 

First Aid made a point of ignoring him. "Do you think we can do it?" he said to Perceptor.

What a question. They were so young, so eager to please, to be helpful. So strong as a team, but so fragile in ways Perceptor didn't even want to think about. 

"Yes," he said. "I don't want to say it because I don't want this to be our only option, but yes I believe you have the potential to succeed at this. _However_ the success of this treaty is not solely reliant on your actions." Perceptor paused, giving them time to absorb his words. "I do not have sufficient data on this new gestalt to calculate the likelihood that _they_ are capable of the same."

There was a hum of electromagnetic activity as the Protectobots communed via their team bond. After a moment Hot Spot nodded. "We understand."


	10. Chapter 10

"You've got visitors," Trailbreaker said to Smokescreen. He stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other on the door. He wasn't swaying yet, but it was only a matter of time. 

Still mostly in his seat, Smokescreen leaned heavily on the table, cradling his glass. "Who is it?"

"Groove and First Aid," came a cheerful voice from beyond the bulk of Trailbreaker. "May we come in?"

"No," Trailbreaker said. 

"Yeah," Smokescreen said. "Sure, whatever."

Trailbreaker sighed. "OK, I'mma get a refill and some coolant, you guys just keep Smokes company til I get back, OK? And don't let anyone else in."

The door closed, and First Aid pulled up a chair. "How are you feeling?" he said. "How many have you had?"

"Many," Smokescreen replied with a smile. "And I'm OK. It's medicinal. Helps me cope with the shock."

First Aid gave him a look, but didn't comment. 

Groove sat on the corner of the desk. "Can we ask you a question?" he said. 

"Don't see why not," Smokescreen replied. He rebooted his optics until Groove was less blurry. "I'm not promising I can answer."

"That's OK," Groove continued. "We'd like your impression on something."

"What was it like," First Aid blurted. "Being bonded? I mean, if you want to tell us. It was a rude question, I'm sorry."

Smokescreen spun his glass around. "It's OK," he said. "It was... yeah, it was hell." He looked up. "Why do you wanna know? You're bonded already, you know what it's like."

"We know what it's like for _us_ ," First Aid said. He dipped his finger in a pool of spilt high grade and sniffed it. Smokescreen was willing to bet he was making a face under that mask.

"But it's a different kind of bond," Groove said. "We're combiners. You bonded for-"

"Don't say it!" Smokescreen cried. He covered his glass with both hands in case First Aid tried to take it away. 

"But you did," Groove said. "Didn't you?"

Smokescreen sighed. "Don't remind me."

Groove scooted closer to First Aid. "It was that bad?"

Smokescreen shook his head. "Yes," he said. "No. Maybe. Not all the time."

"What happened?" Groove asked. 

"You've gotta be kidding me," Smokescreen said. "I'm not falling for that again."

First Aid gave him a solemn look. "Excuse me?"

Groove smiled. "I think Smokescreen's talking about the time Blades asked him all about Monacus."

There was a lengthy pause. "Oh."

"I claim diplomatic immunity," Smokescreen said. 

"I don't think that's a legal concession for the intoxicated," First Aid commented. "And, um, I'm sorry if our question was intrusive. I didn't realise the answer would bear any relation to, um, things that happen in Monacus."

"I'm not gonna be guilty of leading you astray," Smokescreen said. "Not again."

The Protectobots shared a glance. 

"It's all cool," Groove said. "Anyway, we're pretty much incorruptible. And we're not exactly innocent. You know I mediate with Beachcomber, right?"

"You do?" Smokescreen looked around for the cube; there wasn't enough high grade in the world for this. "I'mma pretend you didn't tell me that."

"Anyway," Groove said, "we've slipped off the conversational path. You were telling us what it was like to be bonded to Swindle."

"I was?" Smokescreen gave Groove a penetrating look. The Protectobot didn't exactly have a poker face, but the two of them were so cute, and who could disappoint a pair of happy little faces like that? "Frag it, whatever. He's a selfish, avaricious pain in the aft and we never should have bonded. We thought it'd be awesome, we could be partners, proper partners, like business _and_ personal. We thought it'd help us at work, that we'd be rolling in cash happily ever after." Smokescreen groaned. "I shouldn't be telling you this, it's ancient history."

"But we need to know our potential allies," First Aid said. 

"What?" 

The entertainment of watching First Aid realise that he'd said something he shouldn't was cut short by the return of Trailbreaker. He carried two cubes and a packet of energon goodies. 

"Smokes," he said. "You'll never guess what I just heard."

"Lemme guess," Smokescreen said flatly, "Onslaught sued for peace."

Trailbreaker glared. "So they told you. Way to break the news, bitlets."

First Aid cringed, and Groove patted him on the shoulder. Smokescreen hid his head in his hands to muffle his laughter.


	11. Chapter 11

“It is your duty,” Onslaught reminded them. “As Cybertronians, as Decepticons. You will help cement this alliance.”

Motormaster scowled, but somehow managed to keep his knees on the floor. Breakdown tried to edge closer to him without it looking like he was moving; anything to put a barrier between himself and the monster looming over them. Drag Strip fidgeted, and Wildrider stared at the ceiling.

Only Dead End spoke. “Can you not see this is doomed to failure? The Constructicons-”

“The _Constructicons_ have essential skills,” Onslaught cut him off. “Skills that you lack. They are needed here.”

“Just ‘cause they can _build?_ ” Motormaster growled. “What about defence? We’re soldiers, _we_ are needed here.”

Onslaught tapped the side of the trophy dangling over his chest. “Do not presume to tell me what we need,” he said. “You were designed for deployment on Earth. No, Motormaster, you will let me finish. You are young, you haven’t the experience necessary for command. You lead your gestalt only because war breeds desperation.”

“So you’re throwing us away?” Motormaster’s engine growled, his huge frame shaking. Breakdown felt his forcefield extend, saw the flicker of calculation in the corner of his optic.

“I am giving you a chance,” Onslaught said. “You are Megatron’s own creations; the Lord Protectors of old would have smelted you. But we are too few, and you fought well despite your inherent limitations.”

“Limitations?” Drag Strip spat, while Motormaster vibrated with rage. “What do you mean _limitations?!_ ”

“Your age,” Onslaught said calmly. “Your inexperience. As I said.”

“Your inability to shut the frag up and listen,” Vortex called from his perch on the arm of Megatron’s - now Onslaught’s - throne.

Onslaught ignored him, and Breakdown cringed as their new overlord stepped right up to Motormaster. “This is an opportunity,” Onslaught said. “You can forge a new life for yourselves, a life of power and influence, but only if you work towards peace.”

“Power and influence?” Wildrider sneered. “You’re sending us to the Autobutts!”

“I am sending you to the Prime,” Onslaught replied, staring down into Motormaster’s upturned eyes. “Do not underestimate the importance of your mission."

"Mission?" Motormaster's rage was shot through with disbelief. "You're not sending us to fight, this isn't a mission."

Swindle trundled over, transforming to root at Onslaught's side. "Sure it is," he said. "You think just because there's no Autobot-Decepticon war any more that there's no war at all?"

"Huh?"

"This is only phase one," Onslaught said. "I told you, I aim to rebuild. To rebuild Cybertron, to rebuild the empire. The Prime must stand beside the Lord Protector, and you - all five of you - are crucial to this goal."

"The... the empire?" Motormaster's engine calmed a fraction, but Breakdown could feel how his fists still itched to make contact with Onslaught's face.

"Eventually," Onslaught said. A little way behind him, Vortex stretched out and plopped down onto his throne. Breakdown looked from one to the other, then to Swindle who stood there beaming at Motormaster like he was made of gold.

Motormaster vented deep, a little smoke emerging from his stacks. "So we bond to the Prime," he said.

"You bond to the Prime's representatives," Onslaught said. "He carries the Matrix of Leadership, his frame is sacrosanct."

"But what if he _does_ wanna bond to us?" Drag Strip piped up.

Onslaught didn't so much as glance his way, although Swindle and Vortex did. "Then you will bend to his will," Onslaught said. "Vortex!" he snapped, and the rotary rolled off the throne and wandered over. "School them," Onslaught said. "Then take them to Hook."

"Sure thing." Vortex spun on his heel, his landing wheel squeaking on the marble, and stalked off towards the door. He snapped his fingers. "Fall in, c'mon, all of you."


	12. Chapter 12

“There there,” First Aid said. “Let it all out.” He rubbed Smokescreen's back between his hinges as the tactician vented Trailbreaker's best high grade into a bucket.

"I'm blaming you," Trailbreaker said. He slumped over his desk, shot glass in his hand and a little energon-tinted drool escaping his mouth. "You shouldn't'a told him."

"I know," First Aid said as Smokescreen heaved again. "And I'm sorry." He wiped a little purge from the mech's chin. "Deep vents, that's it."

"S'not," Smokescreen grumbled. "Not his fault. Not anyone's fault. Frag."

It was just the three of them. Groove had left at First Aid's prompting when Smokescreen began to look sick, and had popped back once to deliver a large jug of coolant.

"They're gonna screw us over," Trailbreaker muttered. "First chance they get."

Smokescreen opened his mouth, but didn't manage a reply. First Aid gently revved his engine, pulsing calm acceptance through his energy field. "We don't know that," he said.

"Ha!" Trailbreaker's chair wobbled as he laughed. "Can't fault your optimism, bit, but they're _bad_. If you only knew."

"Don't tease him," Smokescreen managed, heaving for air.

"Awww c'mon!" Trailbreaker cried. "They're monsters! They're worse than Megatron. Ain't nothing good gonna come outta this. You of all people oughtta know that."

"Don't," Smokescreen began, and First Aid continued to rub his back, humming a calming note.

"Don't what?" Trailbreaker said. He upended his glass into his mouth. A few drops came out. "Don't tell it like it is? Don't say Swindle's a no-good low-down dirty turbo-rat who couldn't find his morals with a map? Have I gotta say that copter's not a filthy piece o' slag who should'a been scrapped soon as they threw him off the conveyor?"

"That's enough," First Aid said quietly. "We're here to help Smokescreen."

" _Yoooou_ were here to ask questions," Trailbreaker said. " _Yoooou_ wanted answers." He lay his head on the desk and covered his face with his arm. "You wanna know how many times Smokey there told me he wished he was dead?"

"Trailbreaker!" First Aid said sternly. "This is not helping."

"Fifty-nine." Trailbreaker ignored him. "An' I think there were like five times he actually meant it. That's how bad they screwed him over."

Smokescreen groaned. "That was the drink talking," he managed.

"The drink," Trailbreaker retorted, "the debt, all that spark bond scrap, that filthy fraggin' copter."

"Enough!" Smokescreen wailed. "Enough, please, my head's gonna explode."

"There there," First Aid said, redoubling his efforts rubbing Smokescreen's back. "When you've gone five minutes without bringing anything up I can give you something for your head."

"You got a time machine?" Trailbreaker said. "Needed something for his head when he first ran into Swindle."

" _Trailbreaker_ ," First Aid said, and the echo of Ratchet in his voice made the mech's jaw drop. "That's enough, I mean it."

Smokescreen sputtered a laugh. "The look on your face."

"Shuttup," Trailbreaker mumbled. "Hey bitlet, you wanna try that voice on Swindle some time. He'd spring an oil leak."

"I'm sure he wouldn't," First Aid replied. "Here." He drew a clean cloth out of the pack and handed it to Smokescreen. "How’s your tank?"

"Empty," Smokescreen said, his vents slowing a little. "Only... Do you think you could scratch my hinges? They're kinda itchy."

First Aid gave him a fond smile. "All right," he said, and Trailbreaker very wisely decided not to pass comment.


	13. Chapter 13

"Feel the waves," Beachcomber said softly. "Nice and slow. Vent in for twenty, then out for twenty five." He held Groove loosely around the waist, a web of cables humming around them. His cord vibrated, gripped snug within the warmth of Groove's port. Groove's optics were off, his frame stiff as he surfed the interface, his lips curved in a grin of utter happiness.

He held it for longer this time, riding the cusp of overload without committing to physical release. His port rippled and his spark swelled so sweetly, spreading the joyous, calm core of him through them both. Until a stray breeze tickled the base of his spike, and his port convulsed just a little harder than he intended. Beachcomber sighed as Groove's climax lit the interface, carrying him with it, bringing him fulfilment and warmth and a lazy smile he knew he'd be wearing all day.

Groove flopped on top of him, his energy field a cloud of satiation. "That was beautiful," he said. "Thankyou."

"Thankyou too," Beachcomber kissed his cheek. "Do you feel any better?" he asked, although the answer was clear.

"Much better," Groove said. "The restlessness is gone, and I feel like I can think again." He nestled down under the heat of the sun, enveloped in Beachcomber's arms. Around them birds sang and mammals scurried through the undergrowth. A tree rustled in the wind, and a stream chattered in its wild, unfathomable language.

Clouds passed, and the afternoon lengthened. With time Groove slid from Beachcomber's cord to lay beside him on the soft earth. They stayed connected, Groove following Beachomber's thoughts, smiling at the image of being linked to the planet itself, their cables passing into the fertile ground.

"I'm going to miss this," Groove said, and Beachcomber sent a pulse of reassurance across the wires.

"You're thinking in terms of loss," he said. "It doesn't have to be about what you lose."

"I know." Groove stretched, careful not to knock any of the connectors. "It's just, I've learnt so much. I don't want to stop learning."

Beachcomber chuckled. "Trust me, you won't," he said. "You'll never stop learning. Tell me, what could you gain?"

Groove laughed. "Partnership," he said. "Love, joy, humility, wonder, awe, insight."

"That's more like it. What else?"

"Growth," Groove said. "Knowledge. There could be pain, it's not going to be easy. We don't even know them. But I'm sure we can learn from each other."

"You can," Beachcomber said. "You will."

"And?" Groove prompted. There was something in the starscape of Beachcomber's thoughts, something which prickled at his curiosity. "What do you know about them?"

"Not a lot," Beachcomber said. "I never spent much time on Cybertron. I remember the news the day they were locked away. The newscasters created a narrative of a struggle in the Decepticon ranks. They told how a veteran ground-frame from Kaon had drawn to himself an army, and how Megatron had crushed them and put them in Detention. It's supreme cruelty," he said with a sigh, "to take away someone's frame, their body, their physical being. We weren’t meant to be purely spiritual. If we were, our sparks would be a ball of gas, like a star."

Groove floated a moment on the thought that, perhaps, that's what stars were. He looked up at the Sun. "They could be cruel," he said. "Their experiences could have twisted them."

"Yes," Beachcomber said, reaching to take Groove's hand.

"We could face danger," Groove continued. "This isn’t going to be easy."

"No, it isn’t."

"But we have a chance." Groove squeezed Beachcomber's hand and the hope he sent along the connection was redoubled, sent back to him in a burst that sent his fans whirring. "We have the chance to make a lasting peace," he said. "Is that worth the risk?"

Beachcomber tugged him closer. "You know it is."


	14. Chapter 14

"I've read the treaty through," Hot Spot said, as the door to Optimus' office closed behind him. "I have a few questions."

"Of course," Optimus replied. "Take a seat. Did Perceptor explain the ceremony of integration?"

"Yes," Hot Spot replied, waiting for the chair to transform to his proportions before sitting. "But it's not about that."

Optimus took his own seat and nodded, waiting.

"The Decepticons have several colonies," Hot Spot began, "not to mention vassal asteroids, kingdoms, several moons around gas giants - effectively giving them sovereignty over those planets - and at least one off-world metrotitan. I understand from the wording of the treaty that these will automatically transfer to the dual authority of Prime and Lord Protector as Cybertronian holdings."

Optimus nodded again. "They will."

"Do we have a plan of action regarding their governance?" Hot Spot asked. "You know that I help coordinate the Network for the Recognition of the Rights of Sentient Life - all of these places have been flagged for at least one violation of life rights in the last Earth year."

"I'm aware," Optimus said. He smiled. "I do read your newsletter, even if I rarely have time to contribute."

"So do we have a plan?"

"It's on the agenda," Optimus said. "Once the ceremonies of integration are complete, I will sit down with Onslaught."

"Good," Hot Spot said. "Thankyou, Sir. Now, about the question of dual authority."

Optimus' optics widened slightly, but he did not interrupt.

"The treaty mentions ratification of non-emergency decisions by the Senate, but we don't have a Senate any more. How long until we hold elections?"

"As soon as we step down from a State of Emergency," Optimus replied. "It's been a long while since I suspended the Senate. Reconstruction may take some time."

"I understand. I... I just want to make sure we're all headed in the same direction, Sir."

"I know," Optimus said. "And I'm glad of it. I will admit though, these aren't the questions I had been expecting."

Hot Spot looked up. "Oh?"

"You have no queries about the process of bonding?"

"No," Hot Spot said. "It all seems pretty straightforward, and Perceptor answered all of our questions. The concept of intimacy with our new allies was a little hard to swallow, but I've gone over the wording in the treaty and I'm confident that we all understand what to expect and what not to expect of each other at the ceremony. Plus," he added, "it's all of us going. We'll have each other. Although that does lead me to another concern." He glanced at his datapad, scrolling until he reached his notes. "Yes, here it is. In clause two eight six point one, it states that those entering into the diplomatic bond may be required to perform the usual duties expected of the bondmates of a head or heads of state. Only it doesn't specify what those are." Hot Spot shrugged. "I just wanted to check that it just means attending diplomatic social functions, that kind of thing."

"I will propose a change of wording," Optimus said. "We have no room for ambiguity."

Hot Spot shifted in his chair. "It _does_ mean that, doesn't it?"

Optimus looked uncomfortable. "Yes," he said. "And no. I initially made the same interpretation as you, but now that you raise the question I can see how it might be taken another way. It depends on one's reading of the Primal Codex."

"I thought this was a secular treaty," Hot Spot said.

The Prime sighed, seeming for a moment to shrink. "Secular and religious were not entirely separate spheres in the old world," he said. "The Primal Codex outlines certain rituals involving spark merging which were believed, at one time, to be essential to the proper functioning of any governing body."

"Oh."

"It was believed to keep everyone close, to avoid rifts." Optimus looked away. "It did not always go to plan."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Hot Spot said. He stared at his datapad.

"It is ancient history," Optimus said. "We must focus on the present. I will speak with Onslaught about the wording."

"Thankyou," Hot Spot said, keeping his eyes on the pad.

"Was there anything else?" Optimus asked, and it was as though the ghost of events past had evaporated in the glow of his running lights.

"No," Hot Spot said, standing. "Thankyou, Sir, that's everything."


	15. Chapter 15

"And that," Vortex said with a completely straight face, "is how you turn any interfacing partner into a happy quivering mess who'll want to do you again and again. Any questions?"

All five Stunticons stared at him in mute horror. Throughout the talk, Breakdown had wiggled his chair closer and closer to Motormaster until he was hiding behind the mech; all Vortex could see was his head, poking out from behind Motormaster's arm. Drag Strip looked like he was trying to complete some complex mental gymnastics that might just make the world make sense, Dead End looked as though he would welcome sudden spark failure, and Wildrider's optics kept rebooting.

And as for Motormaster, he kept moving his lips, as though he was about to speak but couldn't quite find the words.

Finally, Vortex cracked a grin. "So I was kidding about the tentacles," he said. "They don't use Morphobots as sex toys, and the Prime isn't secretly a half-organic gestalt."

Motormaster snarled. "This was meant to be a briefing!"

"And I briefed you. You oughtta see your little faces. Priceless."

Motormaster stood, fists balled.

"Uh-uh," Vortex warned with a shake of his head. "Afts on seats, remember the rules. First mech standing has volunteered himself for a practical demonstration of the skills you'll all need to impress our new allies."

Motormaster swiftly sat down, and Vortex flashed him a bright and cheerful smile. "You don't know these Autobots. You might think you do, but it's a brave new universe and you gotta clear your heads of any grudges, get rid of any old animosity. Who do you hate?"

"Silverbolt," Motormaster growled, while Drag Strip snapped "Sideswipe," and Wildrider simply whooped. Breakdown whispered "Everybody?" and Dead End waited until they had finished to say, "Why bother? Hate is as futile as love, and just as destructive."

"Well you don't hate 'em any more," Vortex said, giving Dead End a sidelong look. "They're not your enemies now. If you've got any issues you need to work through, you do it up against the wall at four in the morning and make sure you swap some paint."

Motormaster put on his most disgusted look yet, which was impressive considering the expression he'd made when Vortex had tried to educate them on the finer points of oral cord-play. Drag Strip by contrast did not look disgusted. He was starting to look thoughtful.

"It's a tried and tested strategy," Vortex said. "You hate someone on your own side, buy them a drink. You still hate them at the end of the night, goad 'em into a fight. If that doesn't work, clang 'em into next week."

"I am an elite solider!" Motormaster roared. "I will not condescend to-"

"Having any fun?" Vortex cut in. "Yeah, I noticed."

Wildrider finished his careful study of the ceiling, and stared once more at Vortex. "So, like, you hate someone, you bang them?" he said. " _You_ do that. You?"

Vortex shrugged. "Sure. You know there's a reason it's _me_ giving you this talk, right?"

"And if that don't work?" Wildrider demanded.

Vortex's smile vanished, and he fixed Wildrider with a calm and level stare. "Then you wait," he said. "And you plan. And you make damn sure that no-one's ever gonna find the body." He brightened up. "But that ain't gonna happen cause you're all gonna get on like turbo-rats in a trash compactor."

"That doesn't make any sense," Dead End complained.

"And _you're_ gonna help!" Vortex said to him.

Dead End jumped. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"Take a look in a mirror sometime," Vortex said. "You'll figure it out."

Dead End huffed, but Vortex was sure that the way he re-angled his arm was to see his own reflection in his armour.

"Uh," Breakdown began, peering around the bulk of his commander. "Um, uh, do we really have to, um, interface with the Autobots?"

"I'd recommend it," Vortex said. "You screw each other, right?" He grinned, waiting for the resounding 'yes'. Five shining young faces suddenly found somewhere else to look (well, four shining young faces did; Breakdown's vanished completely). "You _do_ interface with each other?" Vortex said. "Please tell me you're not virgins."

"We're _not_ virgins," Drag Strip insisted, crossing his arms and refusing to look Vortex in the visor.

"Motormaster?"

The behemoth shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "We have interfaced," he said.

"Spoken with such confidence." Vortex sighed. "Who with if not with each other?"

"I would rather we kept that information-" Motormaster began, but Wildrider waved his hands in the air. "I know this one! Octane! It was Octane!"

Vortex looked from one to the other. "Octane," he said. "All of you?"

Motormaster glared, as though daring him to make something of it. "Lo... Megatron arranged it," he said. "He conceived it as a reward for loyal service."

"Octane," Vortex repeated. "Octane the space tanker triple changer with impulse control issues and an alien fetish? Octane, star of like five hundred low budget vids you probably never heard of? Octane who owes Swindle money? _That_ Octane?"

Dead End looked horrified. "Is there more than one?"

"Not all of us participated in the... reward," Motormaster said.

Vortex leaned on the podium. "Primus swallow me now," he said. "OK, who doesn't have a single fraggin' clue what I was talking about before because you never used your own equipment, let alone someone else's?"

"We know!" Drag Strip complained. He contrived to look causal. "I've done it all three ways _and_ with more than one person."

Vortex choked. "All... three? Three ways?"

" _All_ of them." Drag Strip smirked. "And in like _four_ different positions. And I never got my cables tied."

Vortex sat down on the desk at the front of the briefing room and submitted to a moment with his head in his hands. "Three," he said softly, as he sent Drag Strip's words to Onslaught under the header 'URGENT'. "Ons, I hate you," he added quietly. "OK, bitlets." He straightened up. "I think we need to go back to the beginning. First question: who has not used any of their equipment for any erotic purpose whatsoever, ever, even if it's just you and your hand in the washracks when no-one's looking?"

To his intense relief, there was no reply.

"And who has experience with a partner?"

Wildrider and Drag Strip raced to get their hands in the air, Motormaster nodded, and Dead End tossed his head in what Vortex could only assume was a haughty negative. After a moment, Breakdown's fingers became visible.

"You never did!" Drag Strip scoffed.

"I did," Breakdown snarled. "I just never told you."

"Who with?" Wildrider, craned to see. "I bet it was Soundwave. Was it Soundwave?"

Breakdown ducked his head, and Motormaster growled at Wildrider. Only Dead End spoke up. "It was Reflector," he said. "And yes, I was as surprised as you all are now."

"How did you know that?" Drag Strip hissed, while Vortex contemplated putting on an educational movie - possibly one starring Octane - and leaving them to it. 

"All right," he said. "Listen up. I'm only gonna say this once, and frag knows I wish I didn't need to say it at all: there are seven major styles of erotic interfacing available to most Cybertronians in root mode, and a few more that are only available in alt or if you've got a bond - pair bond, trine, gestalt, whatever. I've already given you some instruction on the finer points of the three you're most likely to need to know when you're living with the Autobots, but Primus help me it looks like we need to go back to basics. Let's start with this." He patted his hip. "Do you all know how to find your main plug and port interface array?"


	16. Chapter 16

Silverbolt found Hot Spot in his makeshift office. It doubled as a recharge chamber for the rare nights the Protectobots needed to stay at the Ark. Right now the bunks were flat to the wall, and the workstation took up most of the space. 

“Can I come in?” Silverbolt said. 

“Of course,” Hot Spot replied. “Take a seat, I think there’s a folding chair under Groove’s bags.” 

While Silverbolt looked for the chair, Hot Spot put the console into hibernation and tugged some of Streetwise’s clutter under the desk. “I think Blades is out looking for Slingshot,” he said. 

“I’m sure he’ll find him,” Silverbolt replied. He tried to settle, and knocked a wing against the wall. “They’ve found good friends in each other,” he said. “Slingshot isn’t happy he’s going to Cybertron.”

“Neither are you,” Hot Spot said. 

“No,” Silverbolt admitted. “We’ve been there. Cybertron. We went to the Golden Age, remember? These mechs, these Combaticons, they come straight from the Golden Age. It didn’t live up to its name.”

“Is there anything that does?” Hot Spot smiled. “Would you like some coolant? Maybe some energon?”

“No, no. I just… How can you do this? There has to be another way.”

Hot Spot shook his head. “There is,” he said. “But it isn’t a preferable way.” He lay a hand on Silverbolt’s arm, offered a smile. “We can make this work.”

“Can you?” Silverbolt lay a hand over Hot Spot’s. “Because I don’t know. They’re alien… You were built for Earth, you belong here. Look at your team name, you were meant to protect the humans.”

“And we can,” Hot Spot said, “just in a different way.”

“You realise there won’t be a rotary Autobot left on Earth? Blades was the only one.”

“Not for long,” Hot Spot said.

“What?”

“After the treaty, there’s a good chance Prime will recall Ultra Magnus. Springer is in his unit.”

“Springer?” Silverbolt’s lip curled. “He doesn’t know Earth! We need Blades. We need First Aid too. I don’t know how Ratchet and Hoist are going to cope without him.”

“With Swoop?” Hot Spot suggested. “He’s come a long way since his upgrades.”

“How can you be so optimistic?” Silverbolt drew back. “And… and wreckless! This isn’t you. You wouldn’t lead your team into danger like this!”

“I lead my team into danger every day,” Hot Spot said quietly. 

“Earthquakes?” Silverbolt said with more derision than he meant. “Floods? Fires? These are human things, they’re nothing to us. What about that space shuttle? We don’t know anything about him before the war. And the rotary? He was black ops, you can’t tell me he never did anything bad in his life. And some of them have a criminal record! They’re not good people, they don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t they deserve a second chance?” Hot Spot asked.

“Maybe if they prove themselves first,” Silverbolt countered. “But they haven’t, have they? We haven’t even met them. They just storm in and kill Megatron. And just let that settle in for a minute - they _killed Megatron_. And now Soundwave’s on their side and they’re offering us peace if we swap gestalts? It’s insane!”

“I’m going to miss you,” Hot Spot said softly, and Silverbolt froze. 

“What?”

“I’m going to miss our talks,” Hot Spot said. “I know we can still talk, and we can write. But I’m going to miss sitting out in the desert with you, talking through the night. I’m going to miss our walks. Just knowing you’re around.”

“Scrap, I’ll miss you too,” Silverbolt said, and leapt off the chair to sweep Hot Spot into a hug. “I’m sorry I’m being such a jerk, I’m just scared. I don’t want you to go, any of you. I want you here where we can look out for each other.”

“I know,” Hot Spot said. “But our minds are made up. It’s not forever though. When we’ve rebuilt, you’ll come to Cybertron, all of you.”

“I don’t know if I want to go to Cybertron,” Silverbolt said, but he was smiling again, face buried in the crook of Hot Spot’s neck. 

“Do you want to stay here?” Hot Spot said. “At least until the others come back and want to get some recharge. I have some paperwork to finish up, but we could connect and just sit a while?”

Silverbolt gave him a final squeeze. “I’d like that,” he said.


	17. Chapter 17

"What did you do to them?" Blast Off asked Vortex as he passed the rotary on his way into the briefing room.

"Nothing!" Vortex hissed back. "They're... factory wrapped! They're brand new! They didn't even know how to make a self-initiated feedback loop with their primary cable!"

Blast Off took his position behind the podium. The Stunticons had begun to notice him, although they all had a peculiar glazed look, and the smallest one was shaking.

"Do they need to know that?" Blast Off asked. He plugged his wrist cable into the podium's AV slot. "This is the best we could get?" He sniffed. "This is ancient."

"So are we," Vortex said. "OK, I'm going. Bitlets, be good for Professor Space-Grump or he'll shoot you with his cannons."

Blast Off aimed said cannons at Vortex until the heliformer was out of the room. Then he coughed, a suitable prelude to any presentation, and powered up the projector. "This briefing is intended to familiarise you with the proper forms of address for individuals of the Cybertronian hierarchy within the alpha and beta castes," he said.

"The what now?" The grey one spoke without raising his hand. "What kinda caste? Are we making things?"

"He said address, idiot," the ugly yellow one piped up. "It’s a logistics talk."

The red one with the mirror finish folded his arms on his desk and buried his face in them. Their commander sighed.

Having decided that the grey one and the yellow one were best ignored, Blast Off looked up. "When I entered the room,” he said, “there were five of you."

The commander grunted, and a small dark helm rose over his shoulder.

"I see..." Blast Off bought up the first slide. "We will begin with Prime. As you will know, this is the standard Middle Iahex glyph for Prime. All modulated verbs follow the fifth gender, with two exceptions, both of which would only be applied when speaking with an alpha caste airframe built in Vos. In such a case, all verbs follow Vosian gender rules. Regardless, you must never address the Prime as My Lord Prime or any variation thereof - you are not low caste. To you, they are simply ‘Prime’ or ‘my Prime’. Is that understood?"

To Blast Off's surprise, the gleaming advertisement for wax polish had raised his head and was nodding. The others were also watching, but the few bare faces wore frowns.

"I apologise for the elementary nature of the material," Blast Off said. "Moving on, we will consider alpha caste airframes as a class, remembering to except trined tetra jets as they follow slightly different rules and are accorded a marginally higher status."

The red one sat straighter in his chair, but Motormaster tilted his head.

"Elementary?" he said.

"Excuse me?"

" _This_ is for _beginners?_ "

"It's all very simple," Blast Off said.

Motormaster pulled a face, and Blast Off began to wish that Vortex hadn't left, he would have known what to make of it. The grey grounder raised his hand, but didn't wait to be addressed before speaking. "What's that picture thing?" he said.

"Picture... thing?"

"That picture thing on the thing behind you. It's all curly. The picture thing."

Blast Off glanced at the screen, expecting the slides to have become corrupted, but the glyph of the Prime stood in perfect low-holographic relief. "Are you telling me you can't read this?"

"I can read great," the grey one said. "I know how to read road signs in five different Earth languages."

"I can read eight," the yellow one said with a grin. 

The shiny red one shook his head, and engaged his vocaliser with a small burst of static. "We were programmed for Earth," he said. "Not that it matters, but I'm the only one with any knowledge of Golden Age Cybertronian languages."

"It wasn't mission-essential," the leader growled. "We have Neo-Cybex, American English and Mandarin Chinese as standard."

Blast Off had begun to develop a need for a strong drink. "I was requested to instruct you in proper etiquette," he said. "But you don't know Middle Iahex."

"Only me," the red one said. "Although Breakdown knows a little High Iacon."

Blast Off had no idea which one Breakdown was, and wasn't about to ask. "High Iaconian is obsolete," he said. "You'd be better off learning an Altihexian dialect. As I understand, it is still a living language in some colonies."

"Whoop de do," the yellow one said, and the leader began to fidget.

Blast Off mentally struck the first two breems from his presentation and jumped to the twelfth slide.

"Not this again!" a sulky voice spoke from behind Motormaster.

"That's not what you think," the red one hissed, but the yellow one was already snickering and the grey one had that glint in his eye that Vortex sometimes got.

"Moving on!" Blast Off announced with some volume. "Status-appropriate genuflexions. The slide details the proper position to adopt upon first meeting your Prime."

The grey one and the red one fell about laughing. Even the small one behind Motormaster seemed to find it amusing. 

"Please continue," Motormaster said, stony faced.

"One moment," Blast Off said, and re-angled his cannons. As they were located on his legs, he needed to step out from behind the podium before their new position and the slight purple glow of their muzzles could be seen. He threw them a little extra power, and they whined. 

A hush came over the room, and Blast Off nodded. "Excellent,” he said. “Now, genuflections."


	18. Chapter 18

“Boss?” Rumble called. He edged into the morgue, flinching as the door rolled shut behind him. “Boss, it’s me.”

“Acknowledged,” Soundwave responded. He had his back to the door, his frame in shadow. Only his hands were lit, resting on the edge of the platform. A strip light hung just overhead, glaring clinical and cold on the remains of their former leader.

“Boss?” Rumble approached slowly, wincing at the echo of his feet on the rolled steel floor. 

Soundwave nodded. There was a cloth on the platform, the smell of polish in the air. 

“Why, boss?”

“It is proper,” Soundwave replied. “He will lie in state.”

“It’s weird,” Rumble said. “He’s dead. He doesn’t look dead, not from here.”

“Step up,” Soundwave said. “Take a stool.”

“Uh, no thanks.” Rumble took a few steps back. “I’m good.” 

Soundwave nodded, and took up the cloth. He lifted one of the dead, dark hands, and began to buff the fingers. 

“Do we _need_ to do this?” Rumble said. “He’s dead. He doesn’t give a frag what he looks like.”

A deeper shadow moved in the corner of his eye, and if it wasn’t for the team bond, Rumble would have jumped. 

“ _We_ do,” Ravage said. She went over to Rumble and sat on her haunches beside him. “You should climb up, get a good look.”

“Why?” Rumble said. “I was there when Onslaught ripped out his spark. I saw it.” 

“Would you rather he hadn’t?” Ravage asked.

Rumble gave her a look. “What kinda question is that?” 

“One we all need to answer,” Ravage replied.

Rumble swallowed. “Boss?” he said, and this time he knew he sounded demanding. 

“I will not tell you what to think,” Soundwave said. 

“But what do _you_ think?” 

Soundwave registered his acknowledgement of the question using the team bond, and continued to buff Megatron’s hand. When he was finished, he lay the cloth down, and turned to Rumble. “I think that it is done,” he said. 

“What does that mean? It is done? We know it’s done, it happened, we saw it!” 

“It cannot be undone.” Soundwave opened his compartment. “Lazerbeak, eject.”

The bird unfurled, his talons brushing the floor before he looped around to land on Soundwave’s shoulder. 

“Your perspective,” Soundwave said.

Lazerbeak tucked his wings behind him, looking down at Rumble with eyes like rubies. “I think it is complicated,” he said. 

“Fraggin’ right it is,” Rumble muttered. He crossed his arms over his chest. “We followed him, we _believed in him_.”

Ravage bumped her head against his elbow. “We trusted him,” she said. “We trusted in the cause.”

“He _was_ the cause,” Rumble said. 

Lazerbeak shook his head. “Not so. The cause lives on.” He stretched his wings for balance as Soundwave walked around the platform, taking the wax and the cloth to Megatron’s other hand. 

“He was gonna make everything right,” Rumble said. “There wasn’t even gonna be a war! He was gonna get rid of Zeta and all the glitch-headed suck-ups in the Senate, and make it all better.”

Soundwave sighed, a low quiet harmony. “It did not go to plan,” he said. 

“And whose fault was that?” Rumble said, glaring up at the platform.

“There were many factors,” Soundwave replied. 

“ _Factors,_ ” Rumble sneered. “Boss, you know it was his fault. Him and the Prime and Starscream. They could’a worked all this out before things exploded. We could’a stayed on Cybertron. Nine million years...” His fists balled, and Ravage nudged him again. He huffed. “Yeah, I know: don’t pummel the floor.”

“You’re right to be angry,” Lazerbeak said, but he wasn’t looking at Rumble. He was staring down at Megatron, at the void Onslaught had punched in his chest, at the hole where the side of his head should have been. 

“Wish Frenzy was here,” Rumble muttered, and Soundwave made that melodic humming again, tugging at his spark. 

“He’ll be out tomorrow,” Ravage said. “My ears itch. Would you?” 

Rumble rolled his optics, and unclenched his fists to scratch Ravage’s head. She leaned into it, a purr beginning deep in her chest. “Frenzy’s angry too,” he said. 

“Is that why he picked a fight with Thundercracker?” Lazerbeak asked.

“Maybe,” Rumble said. “I dunno. Yeah, probably.”

“He should come here,” Ravage said. “He should see for himself.” She butted Rumble’s hand, a silent complaint about the pause in scritching. “We should all see what they have become, what their pride did to them.”

“You would turn this into a lesson?” Soundwave said, his tone flat.

“Why not?” Ravage said. “We loved him. The old him. The Megatron who raised us from the slagheap. The Megatron that fought his way through the ranks of the privileged to serve as Lord Protector. We loved him for his courage, his strength, his ideals. But that was the _old_ him.” She gave Rumble a brief nuzzle, and jumped up on the platform. She sidestepped Soundwave’s outstretched hand and sniffed the corpse, her nose twitching in disgust. “It corrupted him,” she said. “I don’t know what exactly. Power, lust, war, _something_.” She sat by Megatron’s head and gave Soundwave a flat and direct stare. “You know when it all began, you know when he went wrong. You had your doubts, we talked about it. But we followed him anyway.”

“We were bound to him,” Soundwave said. 

“Yeah,” Rumble said, crossing his arms again.

Ravage inclined her head, and Lazerbeak nodded. “In so many ways,” he said. “But how long has it been since he parted ways with his ideals?”

“A long while,” Soundwave said softly. He put the cloth and polish down, leaning heavily on the platform. Ravage stepped lightly over the corpse to nose at his mask. 

“Do you want some time alone?” she said, and Soundwave answered through the bond, a resounding negative.

“I hate him,” Rumble said, only just resisting kicking the legs of the platform as he walked around it. 

“There’s no point in hating the dead,” Lazerbeak commented. 

“But we do,” Ravage said. “And we miss him. What he used to be. What he could have been. That, at least, is something worth mourning.”

Lazerbeak clicked his agreement, and Soundwave’s visor dimmed. Rumble pushed a stool over for him, and he sat down without looking. Slowly, he folded his arms on the platform, and bowed his head. 

Rumble shifted from foot to foot, but there was nothing he could think to say.


	19. Chapter 19

Hook stood at parade rest by the door to Onslaught’s office. There was a datapad clipped to his arm, and several tools magnetised to his hip. 

Onslaught loaded a fresh document on his console and looked up. “Enter,” he said. “Please take a seat.”

“Lord Protector,” Hook said with a stiff little bow. He sat down just as stiffly, and transferred the datapad from his arm to his knee. 

“Thankyou for coming at such short notice,” Onslaught said. “There are several things we need to discuss.”

“Of course, Sir.” Hook powered up the datapad. “Where would you like to begin?”

Onslaught was impressed. Hook was formal, polite, concerned perhaps that his gestalt were not as secure as they might seem. “With the elite trine,” Onslaught said. “Or what remains of it. I understand we have a problem.”

Hook nodded. “Frenzy and Thundercracker had an… altercation,” he began.”

“No,” Onslaught said. “They didn’t. In plain language, no euphemisms.”

“Very well,” Hook said, his optics narrowing. “Judging by their injuries, they began with a simple fist fight and worked up to attempting to stave each others’ heads in. I’m sure it made an interesting tableau, considering their relative sizes.” His optics flashed, and Onslaught wondered if he was smiling under that mask. 

“Any witnesses?”

“None, Sir.”

“What is their current state?”

“I have re-attached Frenzy’s arm - a difficult and highly skilled procedure, I can assure you - and I plan on releasing him from medbay tomorrow morning.” He paused a moment, but when Onslaught just waited, he moved briskly on. “Thundercracker is more difficult. As you know, he, Skywarp and Starscream were trine bonded. His injuries will give me no problems, but his psychological state may be an issue.”

“Specifically?” Onslaught said. 

“ _Specifically?_ ” Hook gave a little laugh. “He’s unbalanced. His responses in any given situation cannot be guaranteed to be appropriate.”

“He’ll resort to violence?”

Hook nodded. “It happened with Frenzy, who of course is influenced by the severing of Soundwave’s bond with Megatron.”

“Indeed,” Onslaught said. “Your recommendations?”

Hook blinked. “My… recommendations, yes.” He scrolled through the text on his datapad. “Excuse me, but Megatron did not often request my advice.”

“I do not request it,” Onslaught said flatly. “I require it.”

“Of course, Sir,” Hook replied, and was that a slight brightening of his optics? Hook coughed, looking down at his datapad. “Place Thundercracker under observation. Not the brig, or at least not for any longer than the usual punishment for brawling. Confine him to quarters with Skywarp. Soundwave should keep their rooms on the security grid, with medical and high command access only. I will observe them remotely, and inform you when and if we need to intervene.”

“How long?” Onslaught said. 

“As long as it takes,” Hook replied. “They will need to fly, send them with Ramjet’s trine, they were on Earth together. Don’t send the Rainmakers, they don’t always see eye-to-eye. I would recommend keeping them away from other tetra jets until they’ve settled down.”

“Why?”

Hook shrugged. “They’ll likely bond with the first lone jet of their own frametype they make contact with. An unfinished trine is merely a straight line. Seekers need to triangulate, they require a third point of reference.”

“Is this purely medical,” Onslaught said, “or have we strayed into theological territory?”

“Both,” Hook replied. “Whatever you may believe is the cause, they _will_ seek out a third, and until they’re settled enough to make an informed decision with your blessing, they cannot be trusted. Do I have your permission to place them on medical leave?”

“You do.” 

“Excellent. Moving on, there is the subject of supplies.”

“Draw up a list of items,” Onslaught said. “Until we’ve established the proper system for requisitioning, all requests are to go through Swindle.” He raised a hand, anticipating Hook’s objection. Hook’s vocaliser clicked off, and Onslaught continued. “Swindle will expect a gratuity for prompt service, I know this. Do not think that I am unaware. When he attempts this, you may call Vortex as a witness.”

“And then what?” Hook said. “Sir.”

“And then Vortex will ensure that Swindle does _not_ push his luck, and you will get what you need.”

“If he comes,” Hook said. 

“Excuse me?”

Hook flicked to a new tab on his datapad. “You ordered a full check-up for yourself and your team,” he said. “I have seen you, Brawl and Swindle, and I have had a polite response from the shuttle who organised an alternative time. Vortex has not only failed to reply, he’s blocked my number.”

Onslaught watched his chronometer tick through five astroseconds before speaking. “Then call Brawl,” he said. 

“To ensure Vortex attends medbay?” Hook asked. “With all due respect, I’m not sure that will help. I’ve seen him in the building, I know he’s here. He’s avoiding me.”

“Call Brawl to ensure Swindle plays by the rules,” Onslaught said. “I will see to Vortex.”

For a moment it looked as though Hook was about to question this, but he just coughed and nodded. 

“Has Soundwave kept up his appointments?” Onslaught said. 

Hook nodded again. “Soundwave is operating within acceptable parameters,” he said. “As are his cassettes, with the current exception of Frenzy.”

“Good.” Onslaught sent a short message to Vortex before continuing. “Inform me immediately if anything changes,” he said. 

“Of course,” Hook replied. “Was there anything else, Sir?”

“Actually yes,” Onslaught said. “The Prime and his advisors are receptive to the treaty. They have proposed a gestalt to exchange for the Stunticons.”

Hook nodded. “Which one?” he asked. “They only have two.”

“So I’m given to understand,” Onslaught said. “I was disappointed to learn that the Dinobots do not combine.”

“Disappointed?” Hook laughed, and this time it was with genuine humour. “I’m not. Can you imagine the damage they would have caused? My life is stressful enough as it is.”

Onslaught smiled beneath his mask. “I am given to understand that the Protectobots have volunteered.”

Hook stared. “Really? That’s… interesting.”

Onslaught leaned forward, fingers steepled. “Why?” 

“Well,” Hook sniffed, “they were built for Earth. They’re a search and rescue team. I seem to remember it was a bit of a publicity stunt for the Autobots with the Earthlings. They have no real link with Cybertron.”

“Who built them?”

“Wheeljack and Ratchet?” Hook suggested. “Perceptor, perhaps. They’re well made, but they’re hardly military.”

Neither were you, Onslaught thought, but said, “Military is not what we need, not for this.”

“I defer to your expertise,” Hook responded. “Was there anything else I could help you with?”

“Just one thing.” Onslaught spun the projector for his monitor so that Hook could see the holographic display. “The Autobots have requested a change in the wording of the treaty. They wish for clarification that all interface necessitated by the spark bonding can be undertaken formally.”

“Well, Autobots _are_ rather a prudish lot,” Hook said. 

“Do you anticipate that being a problem?” Onslaught asked. 

Hook looked him in the visor. “Do you?” 

“Perhaps,” Onslaught admitted. “The Primal Codex specifies spark merges as essential to a properly functioning diplomatic bond.”

“Now it’s you who are dipping your toes into mysticism,” Hook said. “Medically speaking, there is no reason that you cannot effectively maintain a sparkbond using a hardline interface. Culturally speaking… That’s a matter for yourself and your team. If I may be so bold, _you_ are the ones with the expectations. The Protectobots don’t have a history, they’re virtually new, they don’t know what things were like in the Golden Age.”

“Our ways are not their ways,” Onslaught commented.

“Precisely.” 

Onslaught leaned back. “Thank-you, Doctor,” he said. “I won’t keep you any longer.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Is something the matter?” Prowl asked. 

Streetwise ducked his head, and stared hard at his monitor. Teletraan-1 flashed a sequence of colours signifying compassionate amusement; he tried to ignore it. “Nothing,” he said, and he could have kicked himself. “Nothing’s the matter, Sir.” 

Prowl dipped his doorwings in acknowledgement, and went back to typing. Streetwise tried to keep his optics on his keyboard, but it was like they were magnetised to Prowl’s back. He coughed, his vocaliser full of nervous static. It didn’t help that Blades was kicking up some serious charge on the other end of the team bond. He shut it out, and tried again to read the paragraph in front of him. 

“Something _is_ the matter,” Prowl said without turning. On the other side of Teletraan-1, Jazz snuck quietly out of the room, leaving them alone. “Tell me.”

Streetwise hit save on his console, and took a deep vent. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Really.”

“But?” Prowl suggested. He paused the program he’d been working on, the code ceasing to scroll on the large screen. “You’ve been distracted today, perhaps it would be better if you rested.”

“I don’t want to rest,” Streetwise said. “I don’t think I could if I tried.”

Prowl patted the seat next to him. “Come talk to me,” he said. 

Streetwise coughed again; the static was a real pain. Dodging a stalactite, he wound his way over to Prowl’s position, and took the offered seat. What he’d thought was code was something else entirely. He gaped, optics tracing the pattern of glyphs while his processors activated long dormant language protocols. “It’s the treaty,” he said.

“This is the amended version,” Prowl responded. “If Onslaught accepts, you will leave at the end of the month.”

“That’s a week away,” Streetwise said quietly. 

“Time enough to prepare.” Prowl’s doorwings lifted, the edge of his energy field a gentle push on Streetwise’s shoulder. 

“Time enough to have second thoughts?” Streetwise said, risking a glance at Prowl’s face. 

Prowl smiled. “Second thoughts are only natural,” he said. “You’ve wanted to ask me something for almost two hours, but you keep talking yourself out of it. What is it?”

Streetwise looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. “I’m not sure how to ask,” he said. “It isn’t a very diplomatic question.”

“Difficult questions are always worth asking,” Prowl said. “Would you prefer I ask Ratchet to join us?”

“It’s not that kind of question! No, I…” Streetwise laughed, trying to shake the tension. 

“Then what kind of question is it?”

The laughter died on Streetwise’s lips, and he felt more sober than he had in his entire life. “Onslaught has a criminal record,” he said. “So does Swindle. From what I’ve seen, the others don’t exactly have a working moral compass. What if they do something that isn’t strictly legal?”

“Ah,” Prowl said, and Streetwise wanted the floor to swallow him.

“It is a stupid question,” he said. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Prowl patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not a stupid question,” he replied. “The simple answer is that we need to tread carefully.”

“But how? If they do something that contravenes Cybertronian law, is it within my remit to challenge them? Should I stay silent? Should I assume they’re changing the law?” Streetwise sighed. He took a moment to collect his thoughts, and Prowl let him. “There’s no Senate,” he continued, “which puts lawmaking in the hands of the Prime and the Lord Protector, but no new civilian laws have been made on Cybertron since the Golden Age. Will they extend Martial Law? How will we keep the peace?”

“They want this to succeed as much as we do,” Prowl said. “And yes, Martial Law will be extended until civilian rebuilding has reached a stage that will allow for civilian law enforcement for be re-established.”

“What about Galactic Law?” Streetwise said, clasping his hands together to keep them from shaking. “We’re already under sanctions from the Galactic Council. What if the Combaticons do something wrong and we’re barred from Council-ruin space bridges?”

“Then we will build new space bridges,” Prowl said. “The Galactic Council is not your problem. I appreciate your concerns, but remember that we’ve been under sanctions for longer than we’ve been at war, and that has not stopped us.”

Streetwise forced a long vent, and nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just so worried. Their criminal past... I’m scared it’s not just their past.”

Prowl put his arm around Streetwise, like he used to do when Streetwise was new and everything got a bit overwhelming. “Those are understandable concerns,” he said. “But remember that you’re not alone. Hot Spot will report to Optimus, and you can always call us. Indeed I expect to hear from you at least once an orn.”

Streetwise leaned his head on Prowl’s shoulder, under the cosy shadow of his doorwing. 

“Did you know that I once broke US law?” Prowl said. “This was before you were created.”

Streetwise frowned. “No. What did you do?”

“When we were new here, I took this form for disguise. Back then we needed to hide from the Decepticons and the humans. I didn’t realise that it was an offence on Earth to impersonate a police officer.” Prowl shook his head, smiling. “I should have known, it’s illegal everywhere else. But I didn’t realise the humans were so… complex, so capable of abstract thought. I was mortified when I found out, obviously, but by then I was used to this body, and my new holoform avatar.”

“You never changed it,” Streetwise commented. 

“No. As soon as we revealed ourselves to the humans, everything moved at a pace. We smoothed things out, and no charges were pressed. Even the twins’ speeding tickets were written off.” 

Streetwise found himself smiling. “So what you’re saying is that I need to be flexible?”

Prowl sent a shimmer of approval through his energy field. “You can guide them,” he said. “All of you, but you in particular.”

Nodding, Streetwise sat upright, flexing to get the crick out of his cables. “I’ll do my best,” he said. 

“I don’t doubt it,” Prowl replied. “I think it’s about time your shift ended.” 

Streetwise nodded. “I’ll just finish up and log off.” He stood, and was surprised to find that the anxiety had ebbed, leaving a healthy tiredness. “Sir?” he said, and Prowl turned in his seat. “Thankyou.”


	21. Chapter 21

Blades ducked, catching Slingshot in the middle with his head, and swinging him around. Slingshot grasped for his rotors, missed, and fired up his jets. Blades kicked with both feet, trying to get some distance, but it was no good, the jet had him. He hit the floor hard, his rotor hub clanging. He had no leverage to spin himself on top, just the rubbery floor of the hangar beneath him and the grinning form of Slingshot above.

“My point!” Slingshot gloated. “That’s five-two to me. Thought you were up for a fight, not for a beating.”

“Get slagged,” Blades snapped, but his energy field rang with charge and he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. His right arm was pinned between them, but he had just enough space to move his left hand.

Slingshot’s visor flashed, his grin vanished. He grunted.

“You wanna?” Blades thumbed the side of his codpiece. “This charge ain’t got nowhere else to go.”

“Sure thing, spinny,” Slingshot said, subtly adjusting his position. “But I’m spiking.”

Blades spread his legs. “You fraggin’ better,” he growled.

It was rough and quick. It always was with Slingshot. Rough and quick and demanding. A contest of an interface, racing to the finish. Blades bucked his hips, and held himself still at an angle where the rapid slide of Slingshot’s spike would catch all the right nodes. He palmed his own spike, optics off as he focused on the charge.

“Faster, fraggit! Ugh.” Blades squeezed, and Slingshot came with a snarl. He pressed down on Blades, crushing his arm, grinding into him slowly now, carefully. Blades thumbed the tip of his spike, the extra rush enough to trip him over the edge.

He slumped, his fans clicking on with the rush of warmth.

Slingshot pulled out and collapsed on the floor next to him. "You've got one hell of a sappy overload face, you know that?"

Blades gave him a shove. "Get screwed."

"Just did. Heh, you're really messy."

"Like you aren't," Blades countered. He leaned up enough to see down his front, then fell back to the floor. "Good job Silverbolt isn't here."

"He'd make us scrub the hangar." Slingshot pushed his voice down an octave. "'That's insanitary! There's a place and a time, and it isn't in the training room!'"

"Ha! Remember that time he caught us in the shower? And he was all 'The Autobot Code did not prepare me for this'. I'll never forget the look on his face."

Slingshot laughed. "Frag yeah. He couldn't look me in the optic for like a week." He swiped at the mess on his front. "You got a cloth?"

"When have you ever known me to have a cloth?" Blades said. "There's some paper towels in the dispenser near the door."

Slingshot wrinkled his nose. "The door is all the way over there."

"And in about two minutes, you're gonna be all streaky and you're gonna need more than a wet paper towel to wipe it off."

"Remind me again why I'm friends with you?" Slingshot moaned, but he rolled over and pushed himself to his feet. A few seconds later, a wad of wet towels hit Blades in the head.

"Thanks!"

"So when are you going?" Slingshot said, sitting down again on the matting. He crossed his legs, leaning his arms on his knees.

"I don't know," Blades said. "When they've figured out the treaty I guess." He wiped himself down, and gave the bin a calculating glance.

"You'll miss," Slingshot warned, but Blades had already thrown it.

"Score!" Blades yelled, folding his arms behind his head. "Awww yeah, I am the best."

"Second best." Slingshot smirked, but it faded quickly. "How much more wrangling are they gonna do?"

"On the treaty?" Blades said. "Fragged if I know."

"Is it gonna be weeks? Months?"

Blades shrugged, and sat up. He shook out his rotors. "It'll take however long it takes," he said. "Hey." He gave Slingshot a very gently punch on the arm. "Don't go getting all deep on me, OK?"

Slingshot rolled his optics. "I don't do deep," he said. "Silverbolt doesn't want you to go. He's gone to talk Hot Spot out of it."

"Not gonna happen," Blades said. "It's the right thing to do, we have to do it."

"And leave here?" Slingshot said. "You love Earth!"

Blades shook his head, still smiling. "Yeah, but Cybertron's got plenty going for it too."

"Weaker atmosphere," Slingshot said. "Flying's gonna be awkward for you."

"Their rotary gets around OK," Blades said. "And it's not like I'm never gonna visit Earth again." When Slingshot didn't offer a retort, he looked up.

"Yeah," Slingshot said quietly. " _Their_ rotary. That's why you wanna go, isn't it?"

"No!" Blades couldn't shake his head fast enough. "Frag no. I'm going cause it's the best thing for everyone. This is gonna end the war."

"But they've got a rotary," Slingshot said. "You're gonna be bonded to a rotary. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"Uh, I _hadn't_ thought about it, not until you said. I mean sure, I'm looking forward to meeting another heliformer, but it's not like you think."

"Oh, and what _do_ I think?" Slingshot glared.

Blades dipped his rotors. "Fragged if I know," he said. "I know you don't want a fight though, not really." He continued before Slingshot could respond. "I know you don't cause I don't either. Not a real fight. I don't wanna leave here with any bad vibes."

"Bad vibes? You sound like Groove."

"We can learn a lot from Groove," Blades said. "C'mon, you wanna go see if Sideswipe's got any high grade?"

Slingshot got to his feet. "Now you're talking."


	22. Chapter 22

"I'll let you have two cubes of the Isotope for five hundred credits," Swindle said. "Cash upfront."

Octane's face fell. "But Swin, baby!"

"But Octy, no," Swindle said, sitting back in the best chair the over-busy rec room had to offer. "You owe me, sweet-spark. Scrap, you still owe me for Kalis, and that was eight million years ago."

Octane threw his hands up. "You gotta let bygones be bygones, babe, I'm here for you now, we can really make a go of this!"

"Make a go of what?" Vortex elbowed his way to Swindle's table and sat down in what he guessed to be Octane's personal space.

"Distribution network," Octane said, flashing Vortex a wide smile. "I'm offering Swin here a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

"And I'm offering you a fair trade," Swindle said. "Two cubes, isotope four, cash in hand."

"Isotope four?" Vortex said. He smirked, and leaned back onto what would have been the seatback if Octane's wide wing wasn't in the way. He crossed his arms and put his feet up on the table. "Going into business, are you?"

"I'm planning on it," Octane said. "I've got contacts on Earth. Their planet's crazy full of energy, and it's ripe for harvesting. Gimme a solid supply of isotope four and a catalyst plate, and I'm good to go."

"And I'm _really_ trying to help you," Swindle said with a narrowing of his optics. "But there's the question of payment."

"I can pay!" Octane said. "You know I'm good for it."

"I know no such thing." Swindle pouted, and began to cast around the room for his next potential business partner.

Octane huffed, then looked at Vortex leaning heavily on his wing. Vortex's internal comm pinged. He allowed it, and read the six simple words: _Please help me, I'll owe you._

"Swin," he said. "I think you're being too hard on Octane."

Swindle's pout became a moue. "Unless you're offering to fund him, I don't wanna hear it." He raised his hand, mouth open to hail Mixmaster.

"I'll fund him," Vortex said. "You can take the five hundred from the three grand you owe me for our little wager."

Swindle scowled. "All right," he said. "Five hundred from Tex buys you two cubes of isotope four, and I'll put in another two. In return, I'm going to see one thousand credits in one quartex and a ten percent return on all profits."

Vortex gave him a look and a very pointed nudge through the team bond.

"Each," Swindle added. His optics flickered a moment, and he held out his hand, his data cable extended. "Contract's binding from the moment you disengage. You have the right to back out before disengaging, but somehow I don't think you're gonna.”

Octane's easy-going smile returned, and he accepted the uplink. "Swindle, babe, you are _not_ gonna regret this!"

"I'd better not," Swindle muttered, taking his cable back. He waved to Mixmaster. "Next!"

Vortex muscled his way back out of the busy room, his vents closed against the fumes. Octane followed, his energy field a happy hum, and his wings casting a wide shadow.

"Hey, Tex," Octane said, brushing that happy energy field over Vortex's rotors. "Thanks. Say, what did you bet on with Swin?"

"Nothing important," Vortex said, pausing a moment to let the outer door's scanner read his signature. Octane followed him into the courtyard between the residential and administrative blocks, and to the mezzanine overlooking the old senate building. Overhead the sky glittered, but it was no match for the lights of Iacon. "You really think you can make a profit?" Vortex asked, flexing his blades in an overt come on.

Octane stepped closer, pressing against his rotor hub. He shivered as the triple changer's large, warm hand came to rest on the cover of his plug and port array. "I know I can," Octane said. "I've got contacts there, the humans love me. We're gonna be rich as Prosopane."

"I like a good cash flow," Vortex said, covering Octane's hand with his own. "I was thinking of you earlier."

"Oh really?" Octane's other hand went wandering, and Vortex leant heavily on the mezzanine's railing.

"I think I might have a challenge for you," he said quietly, not bothering to hide the static in his voice. 

"I like a good challenge," Octane said. He ran his glossa along the outer edge of Vortex's helm, just next to his audial, and whispered, "Is the challenge to help you break in your hot new body? Because I am so ready for that."

Vortex laughed, and pulsed his energy field over Octane's spark and spike. "Not quite," he said.

"Heh, you can't tell me you've had the time to break it in already."

Smirking, Vortex let the latch on his panel come loose. "No," he said, and it wasn't exactly a lie. The breem he'd stolen with Blast Off after the battle hardly counted. "But this challenge is definitely about your talents."

"I'm listening," Octane said, winding his fingers through Vortex's cables.

"I want you to give Motormaster a little education before he goes to Earth." Vortex hissed, arching as Octane thumbed his ports.

"Been there," Octane said. “Tried that.”

Vortex ground back over Octane's spike cover. "How was he?"

"Mmmm... Adequate," Octane said. "It wasn't his first time, but he has no finesse."

"He'll need finesse," Vortex said, adjusting his stance to admit Octane's hand between his legs. "He has to please the Prime."

"I'll see what I can do," Octane said. "Now, about your hot new body. I always did have a thing for rotaries..."

Vortex rocked over Octane's hand. Sure, he was an easy target, but he was a good lay and if there was one thing Vortex needed right now it was to be fragged so well the feedback loop would be ghosting through his circuits for the next orn.

He heard the door open to the courtyard, but neither of them bothered to stop. The idea someone might see them and be scandalised just added extra zest to the foreplay.

"Vortex," Onslaught growled. "With me. Octane, you are dismissed."

"Lord Protector!" Octane blurted, getting his fingers disentangled on the third try. He glanced at Vortex as he backed away, his expression broadcasting apology with a good measure of hope before he fled.

"Great." Vortex turned and leant on the railing, letting his cables spill free. "Way to ruin the mood."

"I sent you a message," Onslaught said.

"I was busy."

"And you're busy now. Fall in."

Vortex packed his cables away and caught up with Onslaught by the time he reached the administrative block. "You could at least have let me finish," he said.

Onslaught saved his response until they were in the antechamber to his office. "So you could endanger yourself with that common piece of shareware? I think not."

"That what now? Like you've never screwed Octane." Vortex trailed Onslaught to his office, and planted his aft square in the middle of his desk. "Anyway, he's clean, I've read his med records."

"Get off the desk," Onslaught said, sitting stiffly in his own chair. It transformed slightly to match his posture.

"No," Vortex said. He swung his legs around so he was facing Onslaught. "What's this really about?"

Onslaught treated him to a level and highly unimpressed stare. "You missed your medical appointment," he said.

"Oh for frag sake, is that it? So what? I already had a medical like three days ago when Hook checked the energy absorber that alien installed. I don't need another one."

"On the contrary," Onslaught said. "I am Lord Protector, you are my lieutenant. You will maintain optimal operational status at all times, which means you must attend your medicals."

"I'm optimal!" Vortex protested. He pushed a pile of datasheets aside so he could lean over more of the desk. "I'm also pretty fraggin' charged. You want to look after my wellbeing? Do something about _that_."

In the old days, Onslaught would have had him flat on his back on the desk before he could flick his rotors. But these weren't the old days, and as far as Vortex could tell Onslaught hadn't so much as taken Swindle for a test drive since Starscream had brought them back online.

"I've booked you in for tomorrow morning," Onslaught said. "You will be there."

"Sure, whatever," Vortex said. He stood. "Now, if you're not gonna do something about this, I'm gonna go find someone who will." He yelped as Onslaught kicked his legs out from under him and he fell hard into Onslaught's lap.

"Who says I'm not?" Onslaught growled, and there was something in his touch, in his energy field, a rough heat Vortex hadn't felt before.

Vortex moved to straddle him, grinning as the chair reconfigured itself. "That's more like it," he said. "Frag, you're burning."

"So are you," Onslaught said, running his hands over Vortex's new frame. His engine rumbled, and the frequency plucked at Vortex's spark, making him moan. "You like that?" Onslaught flicked the release on his cover, plugging in and surging all at once.

"You can do that all night long," Vortex moaned, pressing tight to Onslaught's chest as though he was magnetised.

"Open," Onslaught ordered, and Vortex did as he was told. Every access port was bare, every intimate component exposed. Sparklight pulsed, a purple tide, and Vortex gasped as their coronas made contact. The hunger was intense, desire fresh and fierce, coloured with envy, spiced with possessive need.

Vortex wriggled, letting their sparks merge, lifting his aft to give Onslaught space to extend his spike. He sank down onto it, letting himself be guided.

" _Mine_ ," Onslaught snarled, and Vortex nodded into the crook of his neck. He couldn't have spoken, but he didn't need to. The bond did it all. Every pulse of pleasure, every surge towards overload. From the passing urge to tear Octane limb from limb for daring to lay his hands on Onslaught's own, to the frantic, keening impulse to merge sparks with each and every one of his team.

_You should_ , Vortex told him, the spark overload coiling inside of them. It took them over, frame and mind, melded as though they had combined. Then they were separate again, and riding high on the thrill of a full valve and a buzzing feedback loop.

Their sparks disentangled, the coronas licking out to each other as Vortex rode the spike. They came together, and the rightness of it was terrifying for one hollow, frozen moment. Then the heat hit anew, and with it a fog of satiation.

Vortex slumped on Onslaught's freshly closed chest, his valve contracting of its own accord. The hardline interface faded to a mellow hum. "We are so doing that again," he said. Onslaught stroked the length of a rotor and did not disagree.


	23. Chapter 23

When First Aid made it back to his team’s dorm, he found Hot Spot and Silverbolt snoozing by the monitor. They were leaning on each others’ shoulders, their heads together and their cables connected. Smiling, he put the computer to sleep, and touched his energy field gently to theirs.

Silverbolt murmured and flicked one of his upper arm winglets. Luckily, it wasn’t the one next to Hot Spot’s head. Over in the bunks Blades stretched and gave a sleepy wave. Streetwise and Groove were in the level above him, buried under a heap of thermo-regulation blankets and discarded datapads. First Aid was glad; stress sometimes made it hard for Streetwise to sleep, and he’d certainly been anxious earlier. But it looked as though Groove’s usual technique of calming hugs had won the day. He gave Blades a little wave back.

Hot Spot yawned and rolled his shoulders. “Uh… hi,” he whispered. His optics brightened. “It’s four in the morning, don’t tell me you were working.”

First Aid touched their heads together for a quick nuzzle. “I won’t,” he said. “We should get you both to a bunk, you’ll bend your struts.”

“You _were_ working,” Hot Spot accused. Next to him, Silverbolt began to come around. 

“Who’s working?” he said and winced. “Sorry!” He cut the volume to his voice. “Hi Aid. What’s going on?”

“You’re going to bed, both of you,” First Aid said. He went over to the bunks, reaching out to run his fingers over Blades’ outstretched hand on his way, and set about transforming the two lower recharge pads into one. 

“Oh no,” Silverbolt said. “You don’t have to, really. I can go. You’ll wake up the others.”

“No I won’t,” First Aid said. “There you go.” He smoothed out the covering, tough plastic over a base of thick foam. He fetched a pair of blankets, and shook them out. 

“Better do as he says,” Blades muttered. 

Silverbolt shrugged, and virtually rolled from the chair onto the bunk. Cables spooled out behind him, and Hot Spot made the face that he made when he was trying not to laugh. He followed them to sit on the edge. 

“I was with Smokescreen,” First Aid said before any more accusations of working too late could be made. 

“How is he?” Hot Spot asked. 

First Aid gave in to Blades’ tugging, and sat down on his bunk. “As well as can be expected,” he said, as Blades curled around him. “Perceptor came to see us. He’s going to try to get transferred with us, so we’re not there alone.”

“He wants to go back to Cybertron?” Blades sounded surprised, and more than a little tired. 

“What about Wheeljack?” Hot Spot said. Behind him, Silverbolt rolled onto his side. His optics were off, but he was clearly listening.

“He has Ratchet,” First Aid said. “And yes.” He squeezed Blades’ hand. “I think he does want to go back to Cybertron. At least, he doesn’t seem to mind the idea.”

“I dunno,” Blades said. “What if stuff goes wrong? We can take care of ourselves, but…”

First Aid shook his head, and Hot Spot shrugged. Silverbolt yawned, and patted Hot Spot’s hand. “I reckon that’s what Perceptor’s thinking,” he said. “He’s not made of glass.”

“Some of him is,” Blades countered. 

“That’s toughened silicate,” First Aid corrected. “I think you’re right, Silverbolt. He wants to be able to protect us.”

Blades sniffed, and Hot Spot gave him a look. “We might need it,” he said. “He knows the old ways, he can help guide us. He’s been through this before.”

“He’s what?” Silverbolt said, and Hot Spot winced. Silverbolt reached up to stroke his back. “It’s OK,” he said. “Confidential info, I get it. I’ll lock that one away in deep storage so it doesn’t flash up when we combine.”

“Thankyou,” Hot Spot said. He rolled his shoulders and sank down beside Silverbolt. First Aid tugged the blanket from under his legs and laid it over them both. 

“They can put themselves to bed,” Blades said, and continued over a private internal link. ‘ _Hop in with me. Everyone else is paired up, I’m beginning to feel left out._ ’

Giving a huff of mock-exasperation, First Aid climbed in with Blades. As soon as he was settled, Hot Spot pinged the room’s controls to turn off the lights. 

Blades wrapped his arms around First Aid, shuffling until his front tessellated as best it could with the medic’s back. ‘ _You feel exhausted,_ ’ he commented over private comms. 

‘ _It’s not so bad,_ ’ First Aid replied. ‘ _I couldn’t leave Smokescreen like that. I think the high grade was bad, I’m going to have to ask Ratchet to speak to Sideswipe._ ’  
‘ _Bad?_ ’ Blades asked. ‘ _Like, uh, how bad?_ ’

First Aid took Blades’ hand and held it over his chest. ‘It was giving him terrible surges,’ he said. ‘ _Just please keep that to yourself. I stayed with him as a friend, not as his doctor, so there aren’t any confidentiality issues. I just don’t want people knowing he made himself so ill._ ’

‘ _Sure,_ ’ Blades said, and his energy field felt oddly relieved. ‘I won’t tell.’ He sighed. ‘ _Only… Me and Slingshot went and traded some human stuff for some of Sideswipe’s brew, and we didn’t get surges._ ’ When First Aid didn’t reply, he nuzzled the back of his neck, and said, ‘But we only had one cube each. We weren’t exactly drinking to bring back the Golden Age.

‘ _I should hope you weren’t,_ ’ First Aid replied. He stopped his optics from rebooting, and initiated his forced recharge sequence. Blades murmured his approval, slipping back into a happy doze, and First Aid tried to empty his mind to get the most of his recharge.


	24. Chapter 24

"What are you doing?" Brawl barked, nearly earning himself a face-full of the soldier's wings when he startled.

"Nothing, Sir!"

"Nothing?" Brawl looked out at the Cybertronian night. Or was it morning? In all the vorns he'd spent on the planet since it had spiralled away from its star, he still had problems telling the time of day using the background lighting of the cities. "I thought you were on duty?" He scanned the soldier for weapons, finding only the regulation laser pistol, a stock of cluster bombs, a pair of null rays, and a stash of weaponised energon goodies.

"Not nothing!" the soldier blurted. "Guard duty. I'm on guard. I'm watching."

"Oh, OK." Brawl stepped up beside him, and poked the closest null ray. "Are those the mark eleven?"

The jet stood very still. "Uh, I don't know, Sir," he replied. "Maybe? Sh-" He clamped his mouth shut.

"Sh what?" Brawl demanded. "The mark eleven's got serious range. What's your designation?" He stopped himself before he could say, _I'm Brawl_. He wasn't allowed to do that any more, Onslaught's orders.

"Uh... I'm Stratosphere." The jet slumped. "Shockwave gave them to us," he mumbled. "He did a lot of work on the weapons."

"Oh." Brawl shifted his weight, his treads rattling. "Shockwave ain't exactly our best buddy right now." And he wasn't allowed to talk about that either. He brightened. "What's the range on those things?"

"Oh, maybe half a mechanomile in the right con..." Stratosphere went quiet as the door he was guarding opened. Brawl didn't have to look to know it was Swindle. It was so weird, knowing where his team was without having to ping them first.

"Hey, Swin," he said.

"Sir!" Stratosphere straightened up.

Swindle groaned. "Brawl, come inside. I... It's top secret, just come in."

"OK!" Brawl gave Stratosphere a friendly nod - and that better not be against Onslaught's wishes because he was slagged if he was going to be an uptight aft like _some_ people - and trailed Swindle back into their new home.

Living in Iacon was almost as weird as being part of a combiner team. He could get used to Bruticus. He liked the guy; he was massive, powerful, he made Brawl feel good. But Iacon was stuffy and it smelled wrong. And it was full of people who jumped when Brawl spoke to them, or scurried to get out of his way. And they were soldiers! They should welcome him with drinks and hefty slaps on the back, not call him Sir and stand to attention whenever he walked past. He stomped a little harder than necessary as he followed Swindle back to their new rooms.

"Frag." Swindle leaned on the wall and waved his hand over the lock. "Open, you fraggin' piece of scrap."

"Swin?"

The lock finally pinged, and the door slid aside. Swindle tumbled in, doubled over. Brawl picked him up without thinking.

"Swin, what's up, bud? You OK? Did someone hurt you? Where are they?!"

"Sparkmerge," Swindle said. "I need a merge, and I need one now. Right now. Ahg!" He hissed, the light of his optics narrowing to a tight band. "What are you waiting for?"

"Uh..." Brawl looked around for somewhere suitable to dump Swindle. Stupid Iacon furniture, all swirly knobbly bits and no proper seats. He kicked the nearest chair, making it transform. "I'm gonna put you down," he said. "I think I oughtta get Hook."

"Don't you dare!" Swindle screamed. "Don't you fragging dare!" He parted his hood, tugging open his chest. "Just merge with me, seriously. Now!" 

Brawl swallowed. "Is this really a good idea?" he said. The purple light was a match for Swindle's optics, and looked just as sickly. Brawl's spark began to throb in sympathy.

"I need it," Swindle said. "I know what I'm doing. Name your price."

"Price?" Brawl stood up. "Fraggit, Swin. I'm getting Tex."

"No!" Swindle lunged for him, and the chair must have interpreted his movement as a dramatic swoon because it transformed to catch him. "No, not Tex. Tex doesn't have to know."

"About what? That you're glitching?" Brawl rubbed the sides of his helm. "But you always want Tex when this happens!" He froze. "Are you guys fighting? Are you? You know I hate it when you guys fight!"

"No no no no we're not fighting! Please!" Swindle rolled onto his back, and slammed his hands over his optics. "Please just merge. It'll all be OK, I promise."

Brawl scowled, then he huffed. "Is this 'cause Tex and Ons were going at it like petrobunnies earlier?" he said. "Cause frag if that didn't do something to my circuits."

Swindle peeked out between his fingers. "They were what?"

"Doin' it," Brawl replied. He knelt beside the chair, and looked into Swindle's spark. "Don't tell me you didn't notice."

"Frag me," Swindle said, and began to laugh. "This is all _their_ fault! Oh thank Primus!" His spark flared and he winced, but he was laughing, and suddenly Brawl felt like laughing too. And more than laughing. He pulled Swindle towards him, venting warm air over the crackling, flaming surface of his spark.

"So how do you wanna do this?" he said.

Swindle sighed, melting against him. "Take your mask off," he said. "That's better. Now, open everything and do me like that time in Kalis."

Brawl grinned. "The first time, or the second time?"

"The second time," Swindle said, leaning in to tease the edges of Brawl's covers. "And make it last."


	25. Chapter 25

The first time Blast Off felt the ghost had been the night of the takeover. Their first night on Cybertron; strong after the installation of those parts Starscream had neglected to provide them with, jubilant in the wake of their victory. The ghost had come to him as he stood beside Onslaught, the massed ranks of the Decepticon army on their knees before them. It had been a tingle against his energy field, a flash of familiarity. He'd ignored it.

The second time he felt the ghost had been in his new quarters. Bare and basic, the suite of rooms lacked a certain elegance, but the pearlescent walls glowed faintly with a memory of good taste, and the furniture was functional. He'd been standing on his new balcony, looking out at the stars, when the ghost had brushed against him. Again that flash of something familiar, an echo of the past. He'd made a scan of his rooms for an energy signature, then a scan of the building. Nothing was found.

The third time it happened, Brawl was with him. They were inspecting the troops, an activity Blast Off saw little point in, but which Brawl enjoyed immensely. The tank practically bounced as they walked slowly down each assembled line, and the ghost took the opportunity to press against Blast Off's arm, an energy field embrace, alive and buzzing and warm. And with that touch, something clicked in Blast Off's long term storage, and he smiled beneath his mask.

"I know you're there," Blast Off said, standing once again on his balcony as the lights of Iacon waxed to morning. The reds and purples of a simulated dawn gave way to yellow, blue and white. "No more games."

"There are no games," Mirage said. The light shifted, revealing planes in blue and white, a solemn grey face.

"Espionage is nothing but games," Blast Off said. "Your words, when you first joined the Autobots. Why are you here?"

Mirage arranged himself against the balcony railing. "Because you're alive," he said. "Congratulations on the coup."

"I can't tell if you're sincere," Blast Off said. "Why reveal yourself?"

"We're soon to be allies," Mirage said. "Has he made you Air Commander?"

"You presume I would accept." Blast Off sniffed. "There's energon in the cooler. I note you have already been helping yourself."

Mirage flashed a smile. "I see your hospitality is as warm as ever. If not Air Commander, what's Onslaught giving you?"

" _Giving_ me?" Blast Off pinged his house drone to fetch the energon, and stepped up to the balustrade. "What makes you think I'll be staying?"

"You haven't said you're leaving yet. And you're a combiner now, soon to be bonded."

Blast Off stared out at the city. "It is a political expediency," he said. "I seem to remember you considered it before the war."

"I'm not the bonding type," Mirage said. "Neither are you." The house drone hovered up to him, and he took the offered crystal tumbler. "Very nice," Mirage commented. "Where did you find these?"

Blast Off motioned the drone to set his drink on the table. "I believe they were tribute from one of the colonies," he replied. 

Mirage raised an optical ridge, and took a sip. "Acceptable distillation too. "You're doing well for yourselves."

Blast Off flicked one of his winglets. "You know I despise smalltalk," he said. "Why are you really here?"

Mirage took another sip, making a show of appreciating the taste before he swallowed. "I want an audience with the Lord Protector."

"Why?"

"For reasons that would bore you," Mirage replied. "Although I am also here to see you. The gestalt has changed you."

Blast Off glared, and declined to respond.

"You're more talkative now, I like it."

"Why do you want to see Onslaught?"

Mirage drained his glass and waved it gently at the house drone. "Because there are aspects of our new situation not covered by the treaty and which I would like to discuss before everything is settled."

Blast Off picked up his drink, drawing out the silence until Mirage obligingly filled it.

"I want my home back," Mirage said. "I'm sure you can understand that."

There was another pause as Blast Off retracted his mask, and took his time over his drink. He replaced his mask as soon as he had finished. "Is that all?" he asked.

Mirage gave the smallest of nods. "I'm tired of war," he said. "I want things back as they were." He made a point of looking at Blast Off's hands, folded on the enamelled railing. "I expect we will see more of each other now we are both on Cybertron."

Blast Off tucked his hands behind him. "Perhaps." A message came through on his internal comms and he gave Mirage an assessing glance. "Cloak yourself," he said. "I will take you to Onslaught."


	26. Chapter 26

Ratchet made no comment as Smokescreen slunk into medbay half an hour late, but his expression said it all.

“Overslept,” Smokescreen croaked. Ratchet pointed to a med-berth and he flopped gratefully onto it. “I’m sorry. I had a few drinks.”

“So I see,” Ratchet said. “Stay there and keep quiet while I see to the patient who showed up on time.”

Smokescreen sighed, and buried his face in the mattress. He caught a snatch of science-speak as Ratchet opened a side door, and wondered what Perceptor had done to end up in medical at stupid-o-clock in the morning. Afternoon. Whatever. It was too early.

Eventually Ratchet came back. “You’re alive,” he said, “and you’re not in stasis. Pretty sure I’ve got First Aid to thank for that second one.”

“He’s a good bot,” Smokescreen mumbled.

“Uh-huh. I’m not going to lecture you, you know what’s good for you and what’s not. But any more of this and I’m going to keep you under observation. Is that clear?”

Smokescreen looked up. “It was only a few drinks! Huffer does it all the time!”

“Huffer doesn’t have your special set of circumstances,” Ratchet said, and was that a twitch of his lips? Could he maybe be less angry and more entertained than he looked? "Don't try that smile on me," he warned.

"What! I'm not trying anything," Smokescreen whined. "I'm the one spent the night in misery."

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Sweet Primus, the victim complex." He tapped Smokescreen on the interface cover. "Open up, I need to run some tests."

"Again?"

"What do you think I called you in here for? I'll give you a clue, it wasn't for a chat and a cup of warm energon."

Sighing, Smokescreen rolled over and bared his panel. "I feel like slag," he said. 

Ratchet hummed acknowledgment, and plugged himself in. "Firewalls down, please. Thankyou. You know I think First Aid may not have felt too good this morning either. On patrol at eight after staying up with you until nearly dawn."

"Frag, I'm sorry."

"I'm not the one you need to apologise to."

Smokescreen shifted, his spark churning. "Yeah, I know. Why's he on patrol? I thought they’d be put on leave or something."

"We're still on high alert," Ratchet said. "All hands on deck."

"You sound like Sparkplug." Smokescreen smiled, then winced as his spark decided it didn't like that. "Where is he, anyway?"

"With Wheeljack," Ratchet said. "Grimlock's getting his new tail today." He hummed again, only this time it had a note of caution. "You've been having surges," he said.

"Don’t I know it," Smokescreen said. "Felt like my diodes were shaking loose.”

"All completely well-deserved, I’m sure," Ratchet said. "Open up, I need to see your spark casing."

With a groan, Smokescreen complied. Ratchet's face was not reassuring. "What's going on in there? I didn't drink _that_ much... Did I?"

Ratchet whistled. "I’m not sure,” he said. “You’ve got some scorching, and your corona is disturbed. Have you interfaced in the last week?”

“You gotta be kidding me.”

“Do I infer a no?” Ratchet asked, transforming his finger into some kind of probe and doing something Smokescreen couldn’t quite feel, but which made him cringe nonetheless. 

“You infer a no,” Smokescreen said. 

“What about masturbation?”

Smokescreen groaned. “I love it when you get technical,” he said drily. “Yeah, I’ve had a bit of solo fun. Cord and port, though, nothing with my spark.”

“I’d like to keep you in for observation,” Ratchet said. “Just for the rest of today. I want to make sure this is purely drink related.”

Smokescreen turned to stare at the medic, his spark crackling. “It _is_ just the drink, though” he said. 

Ratchet shrugged. “Don’t move.” He left the cubicle, and returned a moment later with a jar of something blue and glowing. “Nanite gel,” he said. “Your spark casing needs a boost. Try not to move, this might tickle.”

It did indeed tickle. And it tingled, and it went straight to Smokescreen’s interface array with absolutely no warning. He bucked, a giddy laugh seeping from his vocaliser while his hands grasped for the sides of the berth. “Yeah,” he managed. “That tickles.”

Ratchet ran a hand the length of his body, not touching him, but within the aura of his energy field. “Elevated temp, signs of arousal. You’re definitely over-sensitised,” he said. 

“No shit,” Smokescreen replied through gritted denta. He had the urge to grab Ratchet’s hand, to haul the medic onto him. He covered his face with his hands. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You can close your hood,” Ratchet said. “If you still feel this way in an hour, let me know.” He clicked his fingers, and a drone hovered into the cubicle. “I’m going to leave you with the medbot. It’ll keep an eye on your vitals for me.”

Smokescreen rolled onto his front. “Sure thing, doc,” he muttered. He turned his optics off, a queasy feeling cutting through the charge. “Hey, doc?”

“Hmm?” 

“Can you give me something to make me sleep?”

Ratchet rolled his optics, but he didn’t say no.


	27. Chapter 27

Mirage slunk out of Onslaught’s office before the others arrived. Blast Off watched the electro disruptor draw its protective box around him, those fine planes and that expensive gleam vanishing from sight. The building tracked Mirage’s energy signature, capable of this now the encryption had been added to its databanks, and Blast Off kept the feed in the corner of his HUD. The Autobot left as promised. 

Onslaught turned his screen back on. “Sit down,” he said. “And the rest of you.” He spoke just as the door opened on Swindle’s beaming face. Brawl hurried in after him. Only Vortex was late, although not by more than fifty astroseconds. 

Blast Off waited for his chair to properly transform before settling. The tech was old, the cushioning stiff. He had to nudge the armrest with his elbow before it lowered to a comfortable height. Vortex didn’t bother finding a chair, but shoved Swindle’s hand out of the way and perched on the edge of Onslaught’s desk. Some things never changed. 

“Are they gonna sign?” Brawl boomed, filling the silence as only he could. 

Swindle cringed. “Kinda loud there,” he said, and Vortex glanced quickly his way before smirking. 

“We are closer to finalising the treaty, yes,” Onslaught replied. He fiddled with his keyboard, pressing the same command three times without apparent success, before sniffing and plugging his wrist cable directly into the console. The side wall of the office flickered, and the screen diverted to the new display. “Provided all goes to plan - and all _will_ go to plan,” he continued, “the Ceremony of Integration will take place on the Festival of Vector Sigma.”

“That’s soon,” Brawl said. “Wow. Do we know who we’re getting?” He ducked his head at Blast Off’s pointed cough, and continued a little more quietly. “I mean, do we know who we’re gonna be bonding to?”

“Better,” Blast Off said, and Swindle rolled his optics. Vortex had stopped smirking, and was watching Swindle out of the corner of his visor.

“We do,” Onslaught said, as an image of five rather shiny and earnest looking Autobots filled the wall. “The Prime has offered the Protectobot gestalt, and with your agreement I intend to accept.” 

As far as Blast Off was concerned, their agreement wasn’t relevant. Peace was required for the restoration of Cybertron, and peace demanded a bond. It wasn’t as though they had to spend any time with each other. A few breems every quartex perhaps, to augment their link. He’d seen it played out in every court on Cybertron before the unification of city states - if not directly then through the news feeds - and what he’d missed Mirage had always managed to tell him about with no deference to his lack of interest.

“What, not the Dinobots?” Brawl said. “But I thought-”

“They aren’t a gestalt,” Onslaught said, and Brawl slumped. 

Swindle squinted, peering at the screen. “Is that one a cop car?” he said. “He is, he’s got a cop car alt.”

“You shouldn’t go guessing someone’s alt,” Vortex said, waggling a finger. “It’s _rude_.” Blast Off glared at him, and sat on the opinion he had been about to voice. 

“They are a search and rescue team,” Onslaught said.

“Civilians?” Brawl cried. “They’re not even military?”

“I’m not military,” Blast Off reminded him. “Neither is Swindle.”

“But… But I thought we were getting the Dinobots!” Brawl whined. “I thought maybe we could ride them into battle and stuff.”

“This is a _peace_ treaty,” Onslaught said. “And no amount of wishing it will make the Dinobots combine. Besides,” he continued in what Blast Off suspected might be his thoughtful voice, “we will have plenty of time later to forge other links with our new allies.”

“If I’m riding anyone into battle, it’s him,” Vortex said, cocking a thumb at Blast Off. “Frag, that one really does look like Prowl. He’s even got a little chevron thing on his head.”

“He’s a cop car,” Swindle repeated. “A. Cop. Car.”

“On Earth,” Onslaught said. “Remember, _we_ are the authority on Cybertron. Now, if I can continue without interruptions…” He waited until Brawl had closed his mouth. “Good. They were designed by Wheeljack, Perceptor and Ratchet-”

“Perceptor of Kalis?” Blast Off asked, because cautions against interrupting were clearly not aimed at him. 

“The very same,” Onslaught replied. “They were built to protect humanity, as well as to aid their fellow Autobots in the civil war.” He sighed. “Yes, Brawl?”

“There’s no humans on Cybertron. Why send them? What are they gonna do for us?”

“Brawl,” Blast Off said quietly, going so far as to nudge the tank’s treads with his energy field. 

Swindle shrugged. “It’s a legit question,” he said. “What use are they gonna be in the reconstruction?”

“Primarily,” Onslaught said, “they will serve a political function, allying us to the Autobots and ensuring mutual trust. They will boost morale, particularly amongst the neutral population, and I’m sure their efforts in the reclamation of our planet will be well publicised.” This brought a tentative smile to Swindle’s lips, and Onslaught changed the image to show a clip of the Protectobots participating in some kind of rescue. “As you can see, only one of their gestalt is flight-capable.”

Vortex’s optics brightened. “Dibs!” he snapped, and Swindle swatted him. 

“There will be no claiming,” Onslaught said with a growl. “This is a diplomatic bond, and will be maintained solely through a hardline interface overseen by a capable medical practitioner. Is that understood?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vortex said, while Brawl looked more than a little lost. 

“But… doesn’t it say we gotta do sparkstuff in the codex?” he said quietly.

“Hook says otherwise,” Onslaught said, “and I trust his expertise more than I trust the medical know-how of a book that is older than the transformation cog.”

Swindle began to grin; Blast Off elected to ignore him. 

“But what if we, y’know, get along?” Vortex said.

“Then you will y’know discretely without bothering me about it,” Onslaught responded. “Now, one of their team is currently the Autobot’s Assistant Chief Medical Officer.”

“Hook’s not gonna like that,” Swindle said, while Vortex said, “Hang on, when were they built?”

“Hook will retain his position,” Onslaught said. “I envisage that the Protectobot medic will direct civilian care.” He turned to Vortex. “They were constructed on Earth, roughly a quarter Vorn ago.”

“A quarter vorn?” Vortex’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I have their construction dates right here,” Onslaught said. “These are the facts.”

“And the little red and white one’s the Autobot Assistant CMO?”

Onslaught nodded. 

“Heh,” Vortex said, and Blast Off could practically see his mental gears turning. Swindle watched him cautiously, and Brawl began to twirl his thumbs. 

“What is it?” Onslaught said. 

Vortex looked up. “Either the Autobots got truly desperate - which I doubt cause they’ve still got Hoist, and his rep goes way back - or that medic there really is good enough to shadow Ratchet. And if he is, then we’re getting by far the better end of this deal. I mean frag, we’re sending them a mixed bag of personality disorders, and in return we’re getting the guy Ratchet’s been mentoring _and_ he can combine.”

Swindle’s optics narrowed. “The others got some pretty impressive stats,” he said. 

“But only one of them can fly!” Brawl protested, having apparently decided he needed to make a contribution. 

“So what?” Vortex said. “We can get ‘em retrofitted with root mode flight, it’ll be a gift. We gotta give them bonding gifts, right?” He looked at Blast Off. 

“It is customary,” Blast Off replied. “Although I really don’t see the point-”

“We will offer,” Onslaught said. “Swindle, take a copy of their profiles and choose appropriate material gifts. Blast Off, despite your lack of anything approaching enthusiasm for the subject, you know what is expected, advise him.”

“We should get ‘em weapons,” Brawl said. “Do you think they’d like a fusion cannon?”

“Vortex,” Onslaught said, ignoring Brawl. “I want you to make sure the way is smoothed for them. I do not want to see any social difficulties when they arrive.”

“Sure,” Vortex said. 

“What about a scatter blaster?” Brawl said. “Tiny grounders love scatter blasters.”

“ _Swindle_ loves scatter blasters,” Vortex corrected, and got as far as, “ _Other_ tiny grounders,” before Swindle pinched the end of a rotor and twisted. 

“For Primus sake!” Onslaught snapped. “We are the gestalt that toppled Megatron, not some holding pen for new-built seekers! Now, if we have quite finished, do I have your agreement on the Prime’s choice?”

“Maybe,” Vortex said. 

“What do you mean, maybe?!”

Blast Off prepared to push Brawl between them, but Onslaught’s armour smoothed out and his cannons remained vertical. 

Vortex shrugged. “Do they want to come?” 

Blast Off did not often anticipate what people were about to say, it was usually a dull exercise requiring him to choose from asinine options he had little interest in. But he did expect a particular response from Onslaught - one that echoed his own sentiments - and that was that it didn’t matter. Instead, Onslaught said, “Apparently they volunteered.”

“Then yeah,” Vortex said. “I mean sure, I think we should have gone with the Dinobots anyway, but if it’s gotta be a gestalt then we go with the ones who opt in. We can work with that.”

After a moment to process his surprise, Blast Off nodded his assent. Swindle shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and Brawl muttered a “Yeah, OK.”

“Good,” Onslaught said. “Dismissed.”


	28. Chapter 28

The Protectobots assembled in Perceptor’s lab. Grimlock’s tail had gone, the Dinobot’s triumphant roar a faint echo through the Ark’s vents. 

Perceptor smiled at the sound, and turned on the ‘No Admittance’ sign above the door. “You won’t be disturbed,” he said. 

Hot Spot smiled. “Thank-you.”

“What’s happened?” Streetwise asked. “It doesn’t feel as though anything is wrong, but…”

“There’s nothing wrong,” Hot Spot said. “I wanted to get us all together between patrols. I have something to share with you.”

First Aid pulled up a stool, and Blades took the one next to him. Groove was already seated on the empty worktop, his legs folded and expression serene. 

“Here,” Hot Spot said, holding out his hand. In his palm were four small data chips. “The wording of the treaty has been finalised, and Onslaught’s team has accepted our proposal. They have sent this for us.”

“What is it?” Blades asked, as Streetwise and First Aid picked a chip each - Streetwise scanning his, and First Aid giving his a careful inspection. 

“I’ve already downloaded mine,” Hot Spot said. “It’s data about the Combaticons. It is, of course, confidential, this information is for us only .”

“Understood,” First Aid said solemnly. He clicked the chip into the slot on his arm, and his optics dimmed as he scanned, verified, and downloaded the contents. “Goodness.”

“Goodness?” Blades demanded. “Goodness what?”

“May I?” Groove said, leaning over Streetwise’s shoulder to collect his. 

Blades took his last of all, offering it to Streetwise to scan before gingerly clicking it into his arm. “Frag,” he said. 

“Do you think they believe in the caste system?” First Aid said, looking up at Hot Spot. “They all identify as members of a particular caste. What caste are we?”

“We don’t have a caste,” Groove said. “We are free-floating children of the stars.”

“That’s an interpretation,” Streetwise commented. “The corrupt ways of the old regime are no longer relevant, surely? The caste system was done away with, what we have now is a class system, and even that is fluid.”

“I dunno,” Blades said. “This one’s an alpha. And he’s a space shuttle. Like Skyfire.” 

“All shuttles were alpha caste,” Streetwise said. “It was a massive mark of status, if you were capable of interstellar travel.”

“But Skyfire never said he was an alpha.” Blades frowned. “Neither did Cosmos.”

“They’re being very open about Swindle’s background,” First Aid said softly. 

Streetwise whistled. “That’s a heck of a rap sheet. Doesn’t say much about the rotary though. We still don’t know what he actually _did_.”

Hot Spot reached out to them through the bond, a small pulse of reassurance. “Perhaps he’d rather forget about it,” he said. “And besides, there’s no statute of limitations on Cybertronian military secrets, remember, it’s not like it is for our allies here on Earth. They probably couldn’t tell us even if they wanted to.”

“I understand,” First Aid said. “This is a new start for them too, after all.”

“Woah, look at all the planets Onslaught went to,” Groove said. 

“Went to and fought on,” Blades added. “Are these his medals? They gave out medals for military stuff? Wow.”

“Do you think he ever saw Hydrax?” Groove mused, a faraway look in his optics. “And the spaceport at Altihex? And the Crystal Gardens?”

“I wonder if they ever visited Vector Sigma before the war,” First Aid added. 

“We can ask them,” Hot Spot said with a smile. “We should make a note of all our questions so we have a way to start conversations.”

“Woah,” Blades’ optics flickered. “It says here that Vortex was one of five hundred rotaries built the same as him. Five _hundred_.”

“I wonder if he’s the only one left,” Streetwise said, and First Aid’s jaw dropped. “Or maybe there are others in the colonies.”

“Other rotaries would be so cool,” Blades said. “I wonder what his top speed is.”

“Not as far as yours, I’m sure,” First Aid said. “Look at this, there’s a file about their first uprising against Megatron.”

“It’s not very detailed,” Streetwise said. 

“But it is evocative,” Groove declared. “It makes you want to ask more. And isn’t that what this is all about? An introduction before we meet and our teams become one.”

Blades looked up at Hot Spot. “We, uh, we are gonna meet them before we bond, right?”

“We will, yes,” Hot Spot said. “There are a few hours set aside in the schedule for us to meet each other before the bonding takes place.”

“Schedule?” Blades said. “There’s a timetable for this?”

“A draft of a timetable,” Hot Spot replied. “Prowl has the details, I’m sure he’ll let us all know in good time.”

Streetwise gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth. 

“What is it?” First Aid asked, and Blades scanned through the rest of the material trying to work out which part was so scandalous. Even Groove looked intrigued.

Streetwise took a few long breaths before his energy field settled and he could answer. “Smokescreen,” he said. “He’s in this. He’s been in prison.”

“Is that it?” Blades sighed. “Everyone knows Smokey’s done time.”

First Aid gave him a look. “Not everyone,” he said. “Who told you?”

“I’m gonna protect my sources,” Blades said carefully. “Seriously though, it’s no big deal. So he was a bad bot when he was younger? We all have our moments.”

Streetwise grimaced. “If you ever have the urge to run away with Swindle and steal billions of credits worth of jewels and artworks, I will not be able to wave it away as you having a ‘moment’.”

“Wait up, how much?”

“I need to cross reference this with the central records,” Streetwise began.

“Do you really?” Hot Spot said. “This is Smokescreen’s life we’re talking about here, not just Swindle’s. How about we have a nice chat with Smokescreen when he’s back on active duty?”

“It was the heist of the deca-vorn!” Streetwise said. “It’s one of the most famous robberies of the Golden Age!”

“Later,” First Aid said, rubbing Streetwise’s arm. “OK?”

“But there were items that were never recovered, it was never-”

“ _Later_ ,” Hot Spot repeated softly, as Blades began to grin and Groove’s serene expression returned. 

Streetwise swallowed. “OK,” he said, “later.”


	29. Chapter 29

Bumblebee took the final corner to the Ark at breakneck speed, making Spike and Carly whoop and fall about laughing. Behind him Huffer swore and Gears grumbled, but Bumblebee didn’t care. He’d just driven across the better part of a continent with all of Carly’s college crap on his back seat, he deserved to let off a little steam. 

He put himself into a spin, his brakes smoking as he came to a graceful stop. 

“That was awesome!” Carly yelled, giving his dash a quick kiss. “Do you want me to unload you here, or are you OK driving up to my room?”

“Drive us up there, Bee?” Spike said. “Pretty please. I’ll owe you one.”

“We’ve got company,” Huffer grumbled, transforming behind them. Gears did likewise, but not before the ground shook with the reminder that Omega Supreme was very very close. 

“What’s going on?” Carly asked. She patted the door, and Bee swung it open for her. “That looks like a news truck.”

“Halt,” Omega Supreme intoned. Huffer and Gears made the roadblock formation, stopping the bright blue van from getting any closer. 

Bumblebee jiggled his door. “Get back in, Carly, we need to unpack.” 

“Stop right there,” Huffer said. “Hop outta your vehicle and show us your ID.”

“Carly!” Spike said. “C’mon, do you wanna be on TV again?”

That got her moving. Bumblebee shut his door behind her and drove at a sedate pace up into the Ark. 

“There’s another one,” Carly said, peering back over the heaps of pillows and duvets. “Do you think they know?”

“I can’t see how,” Bumblebee replied. 

“Maybe Prowl put out a press release,” Spike said, sounding less than interested. “Hey, Bee, how about after we get you unpacked we go see the Dinobots?”

Carly spun around to face forward. “I bet your dad’s with them,” she said. “I can’t wait to see their upgrades.”

It was another hour before Bumblebee shook the last of Carly’s belongings out of his seams, and walked his humans outside again. Pens, pencils, math stuff, candy, post-it notes; he wouldn’t have thought it would be too much for one box to handle. But it was, and that box had split, probably somewhere in the last state over. All the rocking and spinning and oblivious transforming had lodged things where they really shouldn’t be. Luckily Carly was a whiz with a screwdriver, and pens tended to roll out if you moved enough. 

“There they are!” he said, but Spike and Carly had already spotted the Dinobots - not that they were hard to miss - and were sprinting towards them. He couldn’t help but smile. His humans. His adopted batchmates, more like. Them and Sparkplug, and Chip.

For a while it was all hugs and humans talking over each other, and Grimlock striking poses and roaring to make people notice him instead. Wheeljack scrubbbed Sludge on the nose, and went over to join Bumblebee.

“How much do they know?” he said. 

“I told them there’s a ceasefire,” Bumblebee replied. “They know something’s happened, but Optimus wanted to tell them the details himself. What does Sparkplug know?”

“About as much as I do,” Wheeljack said. “He was a big help with the Dinobots. They wanted to charge straight through the space bridge and make a leadership challenge.” He shook his head, then rocked as Sludge nosed him on the shoulder. 

“Him Grimlock supreme leader,” Sludge said. “Us Dinobots fit to rule.”

“Sure you are, kiddo,” Wheeljack said, leaning up to scritch Sludge on the top of his head. “You rule Dinobot Island good.”

“We rule _universe_ ,” Sludge corrected. His head swung around and he sniffed Bumblebee. “You Bumblebee still very small. You get upgrades, like us.”

“I’ll think about it,” Bumblebee said, patting him on the cheek. “Uh, Wheeljack, there were news crews piling in when we got back. Do you think the ‘cons said anything?”

“To the humans? Nah.” Wheeljack tapped Sludge’s nose. “Sparkplug’s got energon goodies,” he said. 

Bumblebee snickered as Sludge lumbered away. “Maybe they hacked our comms again.”

“Don’t think so,” Wheeljack said. “If Chip can’t break in, I can’t see another human getting in.” His vocal indicators flashed with amusement. “Look at you, all shocked. Red Alert’s got him doing it, testing security from a human perspective. I think it’s a great idea.”

“Yeah, that’s actually pretty cool.” Bumblebee watched Sparkplug and Spike dance away from Sludge’s sniffing head while Carly stood on Grimlock’s foot, arms wrapped around his leg and face alight with laughter as he stomped for her. Then she was sneezing as Swoop launched himself into the sky in a cloud of dust and grass.

“What’s got up his exhaust?” Wheeljack said, but no sooner had he spoken than the wind changed, bringing the sound of rotors. 

“I thought Blades was on patrol,” Bumblebee said. 

“That’s not Blades,” Wheeljack said, looking up. “It’s CNN.”

“Ugh.” 

“Yeah.” Wheeljack raised his voice. “Grimlock, we’re going inside now.” But Grimlock was staring up at the copter from a haze of dust, his tiny eyes glinting. He roared, and Sparkplug began banging on his leg and yelling, but it was too late. A jet of flame speared up into the sky, missing the helicopter by a very narrow margin. 

The copter wheeled, and Swoop spun around it, and Bumblebee had no idea how but suddenly the chopper was in Swoop’s claws, its rotors stilled, and the Dinobot was flying off in the direction of Omega Supreme. 

Grimlock bent over, peering first at Carly still clinging to his leg, then at Sparkplug. “Us Dinobots save you humans from embarrassing media situation. Us Dinobots heroes!”

Mouth agape, Sparkplug wordlessly handed over the treats, and Wheeljack sighed. 

“Another day at the Ark,” Bumblebee commented.

“C’mon,” Wheeljack said, “you can help me get them indoors.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the backlog of chapters. After Yuletide I hope to get back onto this again and write another chunk so I can get posting regularly. Thanks for reading! :D


End file.
